Fate: Hard Knocks
by Fell The Tempest
Summary: When Nicodemus stole the Holy Grail from Hades' Vault Seven, he missed a few items: a scrap of cloth, a knife, an ancient wood placard, a thorned circlet... and a finely crafted scabbard.
1. Chapter 1

**[Author's Note - Fell The Tempest]**

 **[Summary]** : This story is a _Fate/Unlimited Blade Works_ and _Dresden Files_ crossover. It takes place after the events of _Skin Games_ in the Dresdenverse. There is only one change between this story and the _Skin Games_ novel:

When Harry entered Hades' Vault Seven to steal the Holy Grail, he found more than he expected: a scrap of cloth, a knife, an ancient wood placard, a thorned circlet... and a finely crafted scabbard. Now, with children dying in the streets of Chicago, the Fomor making their return, and a dark ritual in the works, Harry is all that stands between Nicodemus and the apocalypse.

I present, to you: _Fate/Hard Knocks._

* * *

"...Harry... do you have any idea what that is?" Bob's dry, raspy voice chided. "Of course not. That's why you're tampering with it. A magical artifact with enough ju-ju to set your teeth chattering, and the first thing you do is fiddle with it like a clumsy child in a china shop."

I brushed aside stacks of new parchment and exotic alchemy ingredients that I'd left lying around. Bottles of rattlesnake venom, a jar of hyena giggles, a flask of morning dew and a salt-shaker filled with depleted uranium - ghost dust - all found themselves knocked to the floor.

You'd be surprised how much alchemy ingredients can cost, given how hard some of them could be to come by. Thankfully, I'd had a recent run-in with several million dollars' worth of diamonds – coincidence, I assure you, nothing that could have come from the Vault of the Underworld – which were more than enough to cover my expenses.

I hadn't had time to set up my lab, and it showed. I'd had to restock most of my supplies, and hadn't unpacked everything just yet.

"Not now, Bob. I'm busy." I set the object in question on the table in my lab.

After my return to Chicago, I'd needed a place to live... and Karrin Murphy, a longtime friend and... something more, yet undefined, was having a lot of difficulty moving around due to a crippling knee injury she'd gotten fighting my battles for me. I figured she wouldn't mind if I set up shop in her basement.

It had only been two months since I'd paid a visit to the Underworld. And, as much as I loved Alchemy – it was a hobby of mine – I'd been distracted by other things.

Namely, Karrin Murphy. Her golden hair, her sultry eyes, and all the tempting things they promised. I heard her walking about upstairs and smiled.

"Too busy for a consult?" I could taste the disdain in his voice.

I glanced up at Bob – an engraved human skull on the shelf in my workshop, its eyes aglow with a bright orange light. I've known him for most of my life. He's a spirit of intellect, bound into my service, though that's more of a formality at this point. More than that, he's a friend. We've been through a lot – he's helped me out on more than one occasion with research. With Butters training to be a Knight of the Cross, and Bob getting restless without someone to talk to, I figured I'd bring him along to the lab. I had a new project, one that I could definitely use his help with.

"Harry, you pulled that thing out of... you-know-who's vault. You know, the Lord of the Underworld, Caretaker of Lost Artifacts?" For lacking eyeballs, the skull on my desk could manage an impressive eye-roll. "Whatever it is, it was probably better off left there. Or at least store it with _Demonreach_ , like the rest of the artifacts you pilfered."

"Nah. Mab said I'd need it. And I spoke to Hades before I took it – he didn't seem like he'd miss it."

"...You _spoke_ with _Hades_?" Bob's voice quailed. "Harry, you stole from his vault! And he _knows_ who you are! Do you have any idea how _vindictive_ the Greek Pantheon is?" I could have sworn I saw the skull jumping up and down in my peripheral vision.

I ran a hand over the object, the metal cold to the touch, small sparks of power dancing between it and the tips of my fingers. I didn't give Bob a second glance. "Look, we talked, and he told me that I'm going to need this thing. He practically handed it to me."

I furrowed my wizardly brow, and at Bob's silence, I spoke.

"He might not be the Allstate Guy, but he doesn't strike me as bad. I think I'm in good hands."

The skull groaned. "If I had hands, Harry, I'd be face-palming."

I ignored his snark and crossed my arms, staring down at the artifact.

It was a scabbard.

Not just any scabbard, mind you. It couldn't be. This thing had been sitting on a stone altar in the center of the God of Death's vault – which, if tabletop gaming with the Alphas taught me right, was where the best loot was always kept.

It looked like more of a work of art than anything else... like it belonged in a museum, or maybe on the set of Lord of the Rings. It was big enough to hold a bastard sword, easily. And I got it out of the Vault, hidden right under Nick's nose.

My leather duster's a work of art, too, though Murphy insists it belongs on the set of _El Dorado._ It's engraved with runes, so it's strong enough material to deflect gunfire and some lesser spells. It's heavy, warm and cozy, great for those chilly winter nights by the fire. That's why I bought one in the first place - I'm all about practicality.

Not because I feel like a manly man when it billows in the breeze. Of course not. As a wizard, I am a man of refined tastes and sophistication.

At any rate, all of that billowing fabric was just enough to hide the scabbard in. In his excitement for the Grail, Nick hadn't looked too closely at me, missing it entirely. He might think he's smart, but he's just like any other two-bit villain. Obsessive to a fault and totally blind to anything else other than his goal.

And people say I should ditch the duster? Please. People look to me for miracles - well, I'm wearing one.

The scabbard was trimmed in gold and blue, with a line of runic script engraved vertically in its center, mirrored on each side. I inspected the runes - they didn't look like any language I'd ever seen before, and that's saying something. I'm a wizard, after all. As a practitioner of magic, and Chicago's only wizardly detective, I'd made it my business to study up on dead languages. I had a habit of running into them on investigations.

For whatever reason, baddies always have a habit of using mysterious and forgotten languages in order to cast their spells. Most prefer Egyptian or Nordic – I'd even run in to a handful of practitioners that spoke ancient Sumerian. Nasty stuff.

I'm still not entirely sure why they do. Traditional logic would hold that darker spells would need to be shaped by darker words, which would come from cultures that encouraged bloodshed or violence. On top of that, since spells are will given form by words, there's the suspicion that a person, casting spells in their native tongue, might associate a common word and a spell too closely, and spit out a fireball mid-conversation.

I don't get what the problem is. I've done that plenty of times, and it's worked for me so far.

As for me, I'm convinced that wannabe Sith Lords prefer using dead languages to work their magic because they think it makes them sound cool. I mean, think about it. You don't see villains shouting phrases like 'Get Crispy!' when they're about to unleash their evil spells of evil. It's just not kosher.

Anyway. I had a passing familiarity with several languages. This script, though... didn't look like anything I'd ever seen.

"Bob," I held up the scabbard for his inspection, "does this writing look familiar to you?"

"I can't see it, Harry. Bring it closer."

I sighed, and hefted the scabbard up for Bob's inspection. The skull's eyes glowed brightly for a moment, bathing the scabbard in soft yellow light.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. I'm not sure when he figured out how to do that – skulls don't exactly have lungs – but hey. I've gotta give Bob credit where it's due.

"Harry... you've stumbled onto something very dangerous." His teeth clicked in agitation. "You really should put this thing back where you got it. It's bad news, I'm telling you."

"Yeah, well, I can't exactly do that. I can't go back there, and something tells me that UPS doesn't ship to the Underworld." I lowered the scabbard and placed it back on the table, eyeing it inquisitively. "What is it, Bob?"

"I couldn't tell you. I've never seen anything like it." There was a slight waver in his voice. I rolled my eyes.

"Bob." I sighed, kneading the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

"Nope. No idea, not in the slightest. I'm sorry Harry, it looks like you'll have to abandon your search for answers."

"Bob." My voice was a little harder now. I glanced at the skull out of the corner of my eye.

"Ah, would you look at the time! It's already so late..." The light of the skull's eyes winked out.

I walked over to the skull and rapped on it with my knuckles. "Bob, you do this every time I bring you something new."

The lights in the skull's empty eyes flickered on again. "Of course I do!" Bob said, his voice thick with tension. "And every time, you ignore my warnings, and go gallivanting off into yet another life-or-death situation. Where's this next one going to lead you, hmm? You've already lost so much. First it was Susan, then your hand, now you're in business with the Queen of the Winter Court. You finally got off the bench, and now you've got Murphy. You're happy, for the first time in so many years! What happens when her life is on the line, hmm? What happens if you _lose_ -"

"Bob. _Shut up_." The words rushed out of me in the span of a heartbeat. I didn't even think. The icy claws of Winter's power rushed over me, and a pure, cold rage welled within my chest. There was silence for a moment, as Bob's eyes looked up at me nervously. I exhaled slowly, and forced myself to calm down, shoving the power of Winter away as quickly as it had come.

"...She can handle herself." I replied, just a bit too fast. "Anyway, Nick's got the Grail. And I have it on good authority that this thing might help. So, once again. The scabbard...?"

Bob sighed again.

"Well," began Bob, his tone resigned, "since there's no stopping you. This scabbard is old, Harry. It has to be, in order to have wound up in the Vault of the Underworld. Here is what is troubling me: I truly have no idea how old this scabbard is. The design is simple, but the quality is pristine. Look at it – it has no imperfections. It's geometrically perfect in design, symmetrical, its surface without flaws. It hasn't even rusted. And the script shows no signs of tooling."

I ran the numbers in my head, and felt like I was coming up short, missing some variable. "...That makes no sense. I don't know what this is, and neither do you, which means it's old enough to be forgotten. But there's no way a blacksmith could forge something this pristine. Not back then. You'd need some heavy-duty machinery to forge something this... perfect." Bob clicked his teeth, nodding once.

The scabbard, whatever it was, burned with faith magic. It was so potent that I could barely touch it without feeling a little singed, and I _knew_ I couldn't look at it with the Sight. As the saying goes, the light can burn as badly as the dark.

"You're absolutely right," Bob continued. "And, consider this: as flush with faith magic as this artifact is, faith magic doesn't prevent decay. Take the Shroud of Turin. The Church has to preserve it and repair it. Just as faith can fade away, so can artifacts of faith. You're right: this scabbard couldn't have been made by a blacksmith. Or a wizard. Or both, working together. It's as though it were forged outside of time itself, on a plane of existence that knows no rust or decay. But I've never heard of such a place."

A feeling of unease settled in my stomach. "What are you saying?"

"...I'm not sure, Harry. But I can tell you two things. Firstly, that whoever forged this item is a being of incredible power. And secondly..."

"...Yeah?"

Bob gulped. "The writing on the scabbard... Harry, that's no mortal language. It's been a very long time since I've seen it in person, but - yes. I believe what we're looking at are ancient runes of magic, long-lost to time. Runes of power, used in great acts of creation and destruction. Runes that have wiped cities from the face of the world. Harry... these are runes of the Sidhe."


	2. Chapter 2

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Thank You]** : Hey, everyone! It feels great to get back in the writing game. I never expected this story to get all that much attention, given that the _Dresden Files_ and _Fate/Unlimited Blade Works_ are niche series. _Fate/Hard Knocks_ has received a surprising number of hits since it was posted.

Expect updates every week or so from this point out.

Thanks for your support!

* * *

I sat there, stunned, eyes on the scabbard. I wasn't sure what to make of that revelation. Bob fell silent, and for the first time since I was a kid, my endless encyclopedia of wisecracks came up empty.

So I settled for a good old-fashioned curse. "Stars and stones..."

There was no way... there was no way that could be true. I'd never considered that possibility.

Once again, I added up the numbers, and they came up short. It didn't make sense that the Fae would create a powerful weapon like this, and then simply lose it. That's not including the fact that the sheathe they enchanted was made of steel – or, as the Sidhe would call it, cold iron. It was their weakness, something so extra-real that it shorted out their primal magics and burned them if it came into contact with their skin. The few times I'd brought cold iron into the Nevernever, I'd been attacked and nearly killed just for having it.

But Bob was right. As soon as Bob said it, I knew he was right. Seeing the runes reminded me of something I'd seen long ago, when I first became involved with the Courts.

Once upon a time, the Summer Knight had been killed, and I was tasked with finding his missing mantle. A knight's mantle is... think of it as a representation of the power, given to them by the Court they serve.

I'd discovered that one of the former Summer Ladies had her Knight killed, and was trying to give his mantle to the Winter Court, in order to destroy the balance between the courts and bring an end to their endless cycle of conflict. Trouble was, that conflict was what kept the earth in tact.

The Sidhe are tied to nature, and an imbalance of power between the two would result in catastrophe. Without balance between the courts, the earth would either be consumed by an endless summer, fraught with storms that'd make Hurricane Katrina look like a spring shower, or by an ice age that would wipe out all life on the planet.

I now recognized the runes. They were the same runes I'd seen on the Stone Table, all those years ago. The same table that gave power to the Courts, and if misused, could pretty much destroy mankind.

Bob wasn't kidding about the 'wiping cities from the face of the world' part.

I shuddered.

"...You're right. I shouldn't mess with this thing." I said, my mouth a little dry. I licked my lips. " I have no idea what it is, and there's no telling what could happen if I press the wrong button."

Bob seemed a little taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "By the stars, Harry. I knew my hope in you wasn't misplaced! Finally, you've seen reason, and you're going to-"

"I'm going to call up Fix and ask him what it is, so that way, I won't be fumbling around in the dark." I gathered up the sheathe in my arms, and stuffed it in one of those oversize military backpacks with a hundred pockets, courtesy of Murphy.

I've known Mab, the Queen of the Winter Court, for quite some time now. As her Winter Knight I'd had the privilege of doing her dirty work for her. We weren't friends by any means, but we had a... business relationship. I played along, and she didn't crush me like a bug.

To fight the bad guys, I need to be alive. To be alive, I sometimes need to work for one. Talk about a catch-22.

Either way, if she had anything to say about the Scabbard, she would have contacted me by now. That's just how she worked. Either she didn't know what it was – which I hardly believed – or was content to let me find out on my own.

Fine, then. I'd ask the Summer Court about it. Fix, the Summer Knight, was an old contact of mine. I'd known him for just over a decade. Things had been rocky between us in the recent past – given the death of the former Summer Lady, Lily, at the hands of Maeve, the former Winter Lady - but he owed me a favor.

It was about time, I mused, that I cashed it in.

Bob groaned and smacked his head against the wall. "Harry, you're going to get yourself _killed_."

I shrugged the backpack over my shoulders, and buckled it across my chest with a sharp click. "Maybe, maybe not. But we have this scabbard, and we need to use it. I've been sitting around for too long, and I'm not getting any younger."

I grabbed my staff and blasting rod, tucking the latter into the pocket of my duster, and secured my .357 revolver in my shoulder rig. These days, I couldn't afford to let my guard down. I had a large enough assortment of people that wanted me dead, most of whom ranked in the top ten of the ' _people you don't want to fuck with_ ' list.

"Right," Bob said, annoyed. "Well, then. You've asked for my consult, and you've gotten it. I'll take a few paperback romances as payment – the good kind, best seller's list, but none of that _Fifty Shades_ nonsense. And I'd like them before you start whatever crusade you're on now, so that when you kick the bucket, at least I'll have something to read to kill time during the funeral."

"I'll see you later, Bob," I replied, as I headed out of the lab. I closed the door behind me and walked the flight up stairs up to Murphy's kitchen, ducking my head as I passed through the doorway.

I picked walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the phone, one of those old-fashioned rotary phones that Murphy's grandmother seemed to love, and held it up to my ear, punching in Fix's number. I heard a little static on the line as I did - complex technology and modern electronics tend to short out around wizards, so I couldn't use a cell phone if I tried – but the rotary phone was a lot simpler, and the call went through.

There was a click, and then a voice answered, musical and regal. " _Fix here. Talk to me_."

"Fix. It's Harry." There was a long pause.

" _Dresden?_ " The voice went cold, and for a moment, I thought I was talking to one of the Winter Fae.

"Yeah. You got a moment?" Silence met my ears again. Then, I heard a sharp sigh on the other end of the line.

" _...I suppose. What do you need? Here on official Court Business?_ " His tone was thick with suspicion, and a hint of annoyance. I leaned against the kitchen wall.

"Not quite. Listen, I'm calling in a favor. You know the one. I need help identifying something. An artifact of some sort. Blue and gold. Fairy scribbles on it. You've got a head for tinkering. Heard of anything like that?"

I heard Fix put the receiver against his chest, and then the sound of a few voices talking excitedly. Them he picked up the phone again.

" _Y-yeah. I have. Uh, it's..._ " I heard more hushed whispers on the other end of the line. " _Listen. I think I know what you're dealing with. But I can't talk about it. Line isn't secure. Would you like to meet?_ "

"Tomorrow, at Mac's. Noon." This was a gambit on my part. I wanted to see how far he'd go in order to meet with me.

" _That works._ _Harry, whatever you do, keep that thing on you at all times. Don't let it out of your sight._ " He sounded... nervous, almost. I suddenly felt the weight of the scabbard in my backpack, the ten pounds of steel digging sharply into my back.

"You know me, Fix. Any reason for the concern?" My shield bracelet glinted in the soft lighting of Murphy's kitchen, hanging from my left wrist.

"J _ust do it. It's... important. I'll see you then_ ," he added hurriedly, and hung up the phone.

I stood there for a moment, receiver held at my ear, and then hung up the phone with a loud click. I felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

"Things just keep getting more complicated..." I grumbled, stuffing my free hand into my duster pocket. I picked up my staff again, and looked around, searching for the next person I wanted to talk to.

Murphy's home was... dare I say it?... cute. The walls were a soft cream color, and the rooms were decorated with rich wooden furniture. Lace doilies covered the armchairs, couches... pretty much any surface that would hold them. The kitchen was a tidy little number, with the table covered with a checkered cloth, and it had this smell of freshly-baked bread that never seemed to go away.

Of course, the cuteness of the home was somewhat overshadowed by the guns. The kitchen table was covered in small firearms – everything from easy-to-conceal pistols to a hand-held grenade launcher. All of them were meticulously cleaned and maintained, and were left in various states of disassembly. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Murphy knew each weapon like the back of her hand – and could use any one of them with lethal efficiency at a moment's notice.

The next person who told Murphy to 'get back in the kitchen' was going to regret it.

I ambled through the kitchen and into the living room, where Karrin Murphy sat in an easy chair, sipping at a can of coke, watching the news, wearing a thick flannel shirt. A pair of crutches rested beside her, within arm's reach. Her right knee, unseen beneath the blanket draped over her at the hips, was bound in a thick cast. She glanced at me as I entered the room, raising an eyebrow. It was a habit she'd picked up from me.

At first glance, Murphy didn't look like much. She could have passed for somebody's favorite aunt, at five-two and weighing a hundred and change. With shoulder-lenth blonde hair held back in a ponytail and baby-blue eyes, she looked like she belonged on the cover of a _Home and Garden_ magazine.

Of course, with all of the Akido and Judo championships she'd won in the last twenty years, and the list of supernatural baddies she and Special Investigations had put down in the last fifteen, you'd start to think otherwise.

"Camping trip?" She asked, frowning. "Never took you for a Boy Scout."

"Appearances can be deceiving, Murph," I replied. "Weather's perfect for it."

She chuckled quietly, and then her expression sobered. "You've got that look in your eyes again."

There was a question in her eyes, and so I looked away. "You're watching the news? Come on, turn that off. It's gotta be depressing, listening to that all day." The television flashed with images of missing children from the Chicago area. The disappearances were happening not too far away, I noted, a foul taste in my mouth.

"I'm on the bench, but I'm not out of the game, Harry." Murphy said, leaning forward. She pursed her lips.

Years ago, she might have gotten angry, thinking I was treating her with kid gloves. She's tough, and fiercely proud. As a former cop, and a good one, she had to put up with people looking down on her for her gender and her height, and it was a soft spot for her.

But, as it so often does, time has a habit of mellowing people out. She and I had an understanding. I didn't push, and she accepted my chauvinistic concern for her life.

I nodded.

"Well," I said, "Do you want to come with me to Michael's tonight? It'd do you good to get out, get some fresh air."

She smiled and shook her head. "No, I'm alright. Go ahead – I'm sure Maggie would love to see you."

I figured she'd say no. She loved the Carpenters nearly as much as I did, but hadn't spent much time around them since blowing out her knee. She never said it, but I think that seeing Michael, sidelined by a bum leg, was a reminder that her leg might never be fully healed.

"Okay." I grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I'll be back later tonight."

"Pig." She sounded annoyed, but the smile playing at her lips suggested otherwise. "I'm still not used to that."

"I know," I said. We said our goodbyes, and I left.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael's house was only twenty minutes from Murphy's – a short drive, provided traffic wasn't too heavy. Tonight, though, I made it to the Carpenter home in ten.

Ever since kids had started disappearing off the streets, Chicago's citizens had become a lot more recluse. People traveled in packs, or not at all. The usually populated streets of Chicago were surprisingly empty – there weren't even any homeless people in sight. Where they'd holed up - or if they had been taken as well - I had no idea.

The sight unnerved me a little bit. Chicago was my home, and seeing it become a ghost town didn't sit well with me.

Despite the lateness of the year, November still held a little of summer's warmth. It must have been in the mid-sixties – probably the last warm day of the year, before the cold set in. Still, the sun was close to setting, and the dimming light made me feel strangely peaceful.

Gravel crunched under the wheels of my ride, a lightning-blue pickup truck that stood out like a sore thumb in the evening light. I turned left onto Michael's street, blowing through a stop sign. Call me jumpy, but I'd rather not be out on my own. These days, it was a risk I seldom liked taking.

I'd needed transportation, but didn't want to buy another Beetle. The original Blue Beetle was too close to my heart for that, and I couldn't stand the thought of replacing her.

So I took a page out of Ebenezar's book. I'd purchased a truck, one with enough horses to start my own racing franchise, a shotgun rack in the backseat, and a storage compartment for my staff and blasting rod between the driver and passenger seats.

I'd picked it up from a local dealership, and had the finishing touches installed by Mike, my old mechanic who used to work on the Beetle. He's a great guy - he offers quick repairs and no questions asked. You can't do much better in this day and age.

Since I couldn't exactly pay for the truck with a credit card – magic tends to work havoc with electronics, and I'd as soon pull money from an ATM as destroy it - I'd walked into the dealership with a suitcase full of money. The look in the salesman's eyes told me that he thought I was either filthy rich, or a wanted man, or both. Either way, that didn't stop him from trying to sell me every extra feature, from an expensive stereo system, to heated seats and a dash-mounted DVD player.

Naturally, I'd turned them all down. I'll be damned if heated leather seats weren't the most tempting purchase I'd seen in the last year, but magic and technology are mortal enemies, and I doubt all the money in the world would stop one from destroying the other.

They say money can't buy happiness. Leather seats are pretty damned close. And, unfortunately, they're right, at least in my case.

I pulled up to Michael's driveway, and parked on the street.

Michael was sitting on the porch in a wooden rocking chair, a bottle of Mac's ale in his hand.

"Harry," he called, "You've missed dinner. Are you alright?" He leaned forward in his chair, looking a little concerned. Charity's cooking was a godsend, leagues better than I'd eaten for most of my life. It was only in recent months that she'd opened up to me, allowing me to sit at her dinner table - and once I'd joined them for the first time, my stomach wouldn't let me turn down another invitation.

"Yeah. Just got a little held up. Working an angle, trying to figure out what Nick's up to. Why'd you ask - everything okay here?"

Michael glanced over his shoulder, towards the open window behind him, and smiled. "Harry, everything is perfect."

That's what I liked about Michael. He was a man who had his priorities straight. A former knight of the cross, Michael had been with me on so many adventures that we'd both lost count at some point. His fighting days were long over, but that didn't mean he couldn't help out in other ways. Michael, true to his namesake, was a carpenter – he'd built his home from the ground up, in more ways than one. He'd taken my daughter, Maggie, into his home when I couldn't be there for her.

I can count the people I trust implicitly on one hand. Michael's on the list. He's good people.

"Is Butters here yet?" I asked, helping myself to a beer, and taking a seat next to him.

"No," Michael shook his head. "He's still at the Better Future Society. Sanya's driving him hard tonight – and I can't say I disapprove. We need him ready as soon as possible, and... even I'm surprised by how hard he's throwing himself into it. He just keeps going."

I eyed Michael skeptically. "He listens to polka, Michael. Polka. He's been ridiculed for it for most of his life. Nothing's going to phase him anymore." I took a sip from the beer, the nutty taste dousing my tongue in a wave of ecstasy.

I heard Charity and the kids chatting inside, through an open window. It sounded like they were clearing the table - I heard dishes clattering in the sink, and Maggie's voice chattering on about wanting to see me. I felt a warmth spread through my chest, and I'm not ashamed to admit it wasn't from the beer.

Michael chuckled. "So, you're crediting his musical taste for his drive. Perhaps I should introduce it to the children, then." I nearly choked on my beer.

"Not Maggie. Don't even joke about that." A note of warning crept into my voice. Michael waved dismissively, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"What did you need Butters for? Harry, you've got that look..."

"What look?" I set my beer down, and tried my damnedest to keep my tone light. I prided myself on my wizardly mystique. First Murphy, and now Michael? I was losing my touch.

"Harry, you've been scowling since you sat down."

"I'm..." I raised a hand in protest, and then dropped it, thumping my knee. "Yeah. I, ah... I'd like someone to watch my back tomorrow morning. Figured Butters might be up to it."

"Harry..." Michael began, but I cut him off.

"I'm doing some digging to find out the properties of the scabbard I swiped from the Vault. Bob figures it's made by the Courts, and my money's on Summer. I set up a meet-and-greet with the Court for tomorrow. Trick is, I've got the money, and they've got the cards. For all I know, this could be a setup to draw me out and take the scabbard. Just because they can't directly act against me doesn't mean they can't try to interfere in some other way."

"And you want Butters to accompany you," Michael said, leaning back in his chair. His voice was calm and measured, and he took the time to consider his words carefully. "But, Harry, you need to realize that he isn't finished with his training. He defeated Nicodemus with the element of surprise, but you can be sure that the Fallen will be seeking revenge. Our friend is vulnerable, and Sanya's eye is as much for training him as it is for his protection."

I didn't take that into account. I'd become so absorbed in plotting that I hadn't paused and though about what my friends might go through. This wasn't the first time I'd done it - and it probably wouldn't be the last. Thankfully, Michael here was there to point it out.

Stars and stones, can I make an ass of myself.

I rubbed at my face tiredly. "Yeah. You're right. I shouldn't have asked."

Michael leaned back in his chair, and shook his head, smiling. "Harry. You're friends. More than anything, I'm sure that Butters wants to stand and fight alongside you. You asking is... selfish, but it's also a sign of trust. You have faith in his abilities, and that speaks highly of you."

Trust Michael to know what to say. I smiled a little.

"If you asked, I'm sure he would say yes. But that doesn't change the fact that he isn't ready."

I leaned back in the chair. It creaked a little with my movement. "Words of wisdom, Michael. You never seem to run out. It's the father in you."

Michael chuckled. "You underestimate yourself, Harry. The last time I checked, you're a father, too."

The Carpenters had been looking after Maggie since she was born. It's not that I didn't care about my daughter... as a matter of fact, I took out the entire Red Court - thousands, if not millions of vampires - to save her. But in the process, I'd killed Susan, my former love and Maggie's mom. Every time I saw Maggie, I couldn't help but feel the pain again... feel the knife sinking into Susan's chest, feel her hot breath on cheek as I drove it up and into her heart.

More than that, I had a lot of enemies. I'd isolated myself from friends and family in the past few years, trying to prevent them from getting caught in the path of the Fallen, the Red, Black and White Courts, the Sidhe, the Council at one time... hell, pretty much everyone who could swing a stick had it out for me, and I didn't want to chance any of the people I'd cared about getting hurt.

The hardest person for me to stay apart from was Maggie. She was just a kid, all knobby knees, baby fat, and unspeakably cute. She also had her mother's eyes, chocolate as dark as charcoal...

Being a father wasn't easy, but I'd been trying. Ever since I'd returned from Demonreach and reconnected with my friends, things had been put into a new perspective for me. I'd shut myself away from them, believing that they were better off without me, but all I'd done was hurt them, leaving them alone to fight the horrors of Chicago in my absence.

But I realized I couldn't stay away. I had a responsibility to her. She was mine, and I needed to take care of her, to raise her. The Carpenters are an amazing family, and they'd made sure that Maggie's early years were full of love, laughter, and family. But, try as they might, they weren't me. Maggie wanted me.

This had become my routine. I'd spend my days pursuing a little independent detective work and helping Murphy out around the house. Every now and then, I'd stop by the Better Future Society, or join the Alphas for a tabletop gaming sessions, to Georgia and Will's delight.

I'd spend my evenings with the Carpenters, helping the kids with their homework and learning life skills. Charity had been teaching me how to cook, a skill I was eternally thankful for, since Murphy had about as much talent in the kitchen as Shaq had at acting.

I'd make sure to see Maggie, too, giving her - and me - the peace of mind that time with family brought.

Despite her desire to live with me, I'd had to turn her down. The Carpenter's home was safer than anything I could ever hope to provide. It was guarded - by the Knights of the Cross, a legion of angels set about the home, and Mouse. Enough said.

I'd grant her wish one day. I promised myself. When the world was safe enough that she could live with me, I'd take her in, arms open, and be the father she deserved. This would have to do, for now.

I opened my mouth to reply - when something caught my eye. The setting sun glinted off of something in the distance. I winced, covering my eyes with a raised hand. Whatever it was, was situated on a neighbor's roof, about a dozen houses down the street. At first I thought I was seeing the sun reflecting off of a weather vane, but... whatever it was, it was too small to be a weather vane, and too close to the roof.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I stood quickly, knocking my own chair aside.

" _Get down_!" I shouted, and tackled Michael, knocking the crippled man out of his chair and onto the porch.

We landed in a pile of tangled limbs just as a loud crack pierced my eardrums, and brick dust caked my face.

I felt a searing hot pain in my head, and my vision faded to white.


	4. Chapter 4

**[Author's Note - Fell The Tempest]**

 **[Thank You]:** First, I wanted to thank everyone for their support. 1,000 views in less than a week! I'm stunned that this story is getting so much attention. The fact that it's got so many followers and viewers means a lot to me. Don't get me wrong, I'm writing for the sake of writing, because it's a lot of fun - but the appreciation is a definite mood booster, and has driven me to write better, harder, and faster.

I also would like to give a quick shout out to **Sociopathic-Antichrist,** **Jouaint,** and **Phantomslayer66** for their reviews and support.

 **[Huge Massive Update]:** I looked over Chapter 3, and hindsight being what it is, realized that it wasn't up to my standards. A commenter mentioned that I was progressing through the story really fast, and was missing out on a lot of detail. To that end, I updated both Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 to help the story flow a little better, and to flesh it out. If you're reading this, make sure to re-read Chapter 3, and then Chapter 4, otherwise you'll miss out on some key details.

Anyway, _back to our story..._

* * *

Everything was white for a moment. I gasped for breath and staggered to my knees, before raising a shield to cover myself and Michael. I had to navigate to him by sense of touch alone – my senses were that addled. The former knight was pale, probably from shock. He was probably feeling exactly what I was, and didn't have the benefit of the Winter Mantle at his beck and call. I glanced to my right, and looked at the chair where I'd been sitting.

It was gone. Nothing but tiny splinters remained, and they were scattered across the porch like an explosion of pine leaves. The exterior wall of the Carpenter's home, where the bullet had impacted, had a hole in it that was easily the size of my fist. I could see light from the kitchen pooling through the opening.

My blood went cold. Charity was in there. Her children were in there. Maggie...

My daughter. My daughter was in there.

 _Protect the offspring._

Winter's power surged through me. It took everything I had not to run after the sniper like a mad dog. I controlled myself long enough to heft Michael up, supporting him under one shoulder, and walk him to the door. The shield moved as I did.

Which saved my life a second time.

I felt it before I heard it: something heavy, fast, and hard slammed into my shield with the force of a charging rhino. I felt the force of the blow in my chest, and all the way down to my feet. My knees quaked, my arm faltered, and I was blown back through the open doorway and into the Carpenter's house. I toppled head over heels, clipping something hard, and then something soft, until my back hit the wall of their foyer with a meaty thud. I felt my breath leave me in a choking gasp as a heavy weight impacted my chest. I slid down to the floor, head swooning, and took a moment to recover.

As I came to my senses, I noticed that the weight in question was Michael. Somehow I'd held onto him and cushioned the blow.

I realized I'd caught a glimpse of what had hit me. Calling it a bullet would be an understatement. It was easily as long as my middle finger. An apt measurement, given how fucked I felt at the time.

I struggled against Michael's body, trying to lift him off of me, but for whatever reason my limbs wouldn't bear his weight. The shock of the attack hadn't yet worn off.

"Charity! Are you alright?" I shouted, my throat dry, caked with brick dust and smoke.

"Harry!" I heard a ragged cough as the dust began to settle. "We're okay!"

I heard a rumbling growl as Mouse made his presence known. Mouse is my old Temple Dog, who'd been keeping Maggie company while I was away. He was as intelligent as he was big, and in the size department, he could give small horses a run for their money. Despite his size, Mouse was more of a lover than a fighter; the Carpenters had gotten permission to let Maggie bring Mouse with her when she went to school, and he was a favorite with kids on the playground.

"No, you're not! Get in the basement! This guy's got big honking rifle, and he's using anti-material rounds. Walls aren't going to stop it!"

Mouse's heavy footsteps padded into the foyer. He brushed up against me, and clasped Michael's shirtsleeve with his teeth.

"Where's Michael?" She shouted, panic in her voice. I'm sure mine sounded just as scared.

"He's coming to you! Just get the kids downstairs!"

I heard Charity giving commands to the children, and then a flutter of footfalls as they ran down the steps into the safety of their basement. I tried not to think about Maggie, and what would have happened if she'd been hit - her face stained with soot and tears, her tiny body evaporating into a cloud of bloody mist.

I was pinned down. If I gave the sniper more time, he'd keep taking potshots – and he could afford to. The bullets would pierce through the brick like a nail through felt. All he needed was a lucky shot, and I was done for.

I needed to escape his line of fire, draw attention away from Michael... and _kill_ that son of a bitch for threatening my people.

Rage burned through me, Winter's cold numbing the pain and disorientation away. With Mouse's help, I hefted Michael up like he weighed no more than a newborn kitten,l. I stood, my duster flaring as I hefted my staff. I rapped it once on the floor, and the brick dust began to rise, swept up in an invisible wind.

Mouse let out a harsh huff, as if to say, " _Go get him._ " Gripping Michael's sleeve tightly between his massive jaws, he dragged the fallen knight away, down the hall and around a corner, towards Charity and the kids.

I focused my Will, whirling my staff above my head like the blades of a helicopter, my duster billowing out behind me like a bat's wings. Then, I lunged forward, my winter-enhanced leap sending me through the hall and out of the Carpenter's front door, and shouted, " _Ventas Cyclis_!"

I tensed, gritting my teeth. A sudden blast of wind struck me from the side, and thrust me into the air. I soared through the evening sky like a cannonball, heading swiftly in the direction of the sniper. I'd angled the spell so that I would drop down on him from above, hopefully negating his use of the rifle. Big guns like that were awfully heavy and hard to use, especially in close quarters.

Still, I knew I'd need to be prepared. If this sniper was any good, he'd have a contingency plan for close-range engagement – or possibly have backup. Either way, I couldn't afford to take any undue risks. As I streaked through the night sky, I grit my eyes tightly against the wind.

" _Defendarius_ ," I shouted, my voice lost to the wind, and held out my arm before me.

I poured all of my rage, excitement and fear into the spell. It was just as well, for my shield was suddenly peppered with small arms fire. The shooter – it was starting to get dark out, and I could barely see their identity as I was blinded by the wind – had discarded his sniper rifle where it lay and had pulled out a sub-machine gun, firing it from his hip with the accuracy of a trained professional. I felt the bullets pinging off of my shield, rattling my forearm like a jackhammer.

I landed on the roof of the building and tucked into a roll, my duster absorbing most of the impact. I raised my blasting rod and shouted, " _Fuego!_ "

A lance of soulfire pierced the dim evening light, as thick around as my wrist and blue-white. The sniper cursed and stepped back to avoid the blast, only for his feet to meet open air. He fell backwards off of the roof. I heard a thump – boots on concrete – and then heavy footfalls, followed by the slamming of a car door.

I ran to the edge of the roof and looked down.

A black SUV, with no plates and tinted windows, roared out of the driveway down the street, towards the Carpenter's house. Before I could so much as blink, the car had made it to the driveway, pulling up beside my truck. One of the rear windows opened, and a steel barrel poked out of the car. The buzzing rattle of automatic gunfire pierced the night, and my truck's engine compartment and driver's side tires were riddled with bullet holes.

"I just _bought_ that, you _assholes_!" I shouted, my impotent rage coming to a boil.

And as quickly the attack had started, it stopped. The SUV roared down the street, becoming smaller and smaller by the second. I growled, Winter's power welling up within me, coating my hands in a layer of jagged ice. I couldn't let them get away. I needed...

"Harry!"

I glanced down, and was surprised to see Sanya and Butters pulling up at the base of the driveway. While they may have been late for dinner, they were just in time for the evening's entertainment.

Sanya was behind the wheel of an world-war-two style motorcycle with an attached sidecar. It was practically an antique, though obviously well-maintained, with a white star painted on the gas tank. Butters leaped out of the sidecar, his expression grim.

"Get in!" He shouted. "I'll help the Carpenters!" He took off at a fast clip, sprinting towards the open door of the Carpenter's home, the crumpled body of Michael inside.

I didn't need to be told twice. I leapt down from the roof and hauled ass over to the bike. I jumped into the sidecar. I'm not sure which growl was louder - mine, or the engine's. Sanya revved the engine, and we took off like a bat out of hell in hot pursuit of a would-be-killer.

Sanya's motorcycle tore through suburban Chicago, its thick wheels biting into the asphalt as it soared through the mostly empty streets. Sanya's bike was a hell of a lot louder than Murphy's – while she preferred the high-pitched whine of a sports bike, Sanya's tanker had a low, throaty growl, like a wild bear on steroids.

I felt ridiculous, because the sidecar I was sitting in was clearly designed for someone smaller. My legs wouldn't fit all the way inside, so I'd had to sit at an angle, the steel of the scabbard in my backpack digging into my shoulder blades. I felt like I was on display, stuffed into a clown car.

But vanity was far from my mind. The wind cut into me, and I had to squint in order to see straight. Sanya's bike was so old that the attached sidecar didn't have a windshield. I tried to duck my head, but I was way too tall; no matter how I sat, I was pinned in on all sides and didn't have much shelter from the elements.

"Where did you even get this thing?" I shouted, my eyes squinted shut against the cutting wind, "Soviet surplus?"

"Craigslist, actually!" He cried, his Russian accent harsh as he revved the engine. I was thrust back into my seat as we accelerated, and very nearly lost my grip on my blasting rod. He must have felt my gaze – I managed to crack an eye open - because he shrugged, looking somewhat sheepish. "It reminds me of home!"

The motorcycle roared through Chicago's side-streets, and I found myself thrown back into my seat once again as Sanya turned a corner at a pace that probably doesn't measure on most speedometers. He slowed down a little, and I took the opportunity to glare at him, only to realize why he'd slowed down.

We'd caught up to the SUV, just as it had merged onto the highway.

Our pursuit hadn't been too sneaky, though, and the occupants of the SUV knew we were coming. As soon as we were within spitting range of the car, one of the back windows rolled down – and a steel barrel emerged from the darkness inside. The air was suddenly thick with the sound of rolling thunder, and I was blinded by the flashing light of gunfire. I felt a round catch in my duster, and a blossoming pain, like I'd been hit by a sledgehammer. I grunted, and quickly checked the limb. My duster was a little torn, but the bullet hadn't gone through - it'd bounced away, merely grazing me.

I was so glad I decided to enchant the damned thing.

"Harry, now it's your turn!" Sanya growled, as he swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid another hail of bullets. I tucked my blasting rod into my pocket and drew my revolver from my shoulder rig, pointing the boomy end at the open window. If I used too much magic, there was no telling how the motorcycle might be affected – so I figured I'd rely on the tried-and-true tactic of 'shooting the bad guys in the face'.

Michael always tells me that I'm a terrible diplomat. He's told me, time and time again, that I need to learn to resolve the problems I have with people.

I disagree. In fact, I think I'm quite a skilled diplomat. Give me a gun, and point me at my target. I'll be more than happy to _conflict resolve_.

I pulled back the trigger. It would have been an easy shot, if I weren't traveling twenty over the speed limit and high on adrenaline. The .357's hammer descended, and a loud _crack_ pierced the night air. Then another, and another. I pulled the trigger six times. The first shot missed. The next two deflected off of the car's exterior – I wagered it was probably armored. The last three, however, punched through the vehicle's open window. I heard a pained shout from the backseat, and then a muffled curse, as I reloaded my pistol.

"Stay on them!" I shouted, fumbling with one of many bullets that I'd tucked into an inner pocket of my duster. Suddenly, I heard a noise – a rapidly approaching horn - and Sanya jerked the handlebars. I found myself facing an eighteen-wheeler instead of an SUV. The truck only took a second to pass between us, but as it did, the SUV veered away and hit an exit ramp.

"You're not getting away this easily!" shouted Sanya. He had a somewhat crazed look in his eyes, and I felt my stomach drop. We were separated from the SUV by several concrete barriers, and with each second, it got farther and farther away.

And then, I noticed it. On the side of the road, just ahead of us, was a tow truck. Evidently, some poor shmuck had gotten himself into a front-end collision, and had called for help. He was standing outside of his car, talking with the maintenance guy that had been sent to help him.

We blew past that poor shmuck at nearly eighty miles an hour. I saw his face – surprise mingled with fear – as we passed by, close enough to touch him. Then, we hit the tow truck's lowered ramp. Sanya howled in excitement and revved the engine.

And we flew.

We had a good five seconds of airtime, but it felt like a lifetime. My heart was beating so fast that I felt like it would explode out of my chest. I was utterly convinced that I was going to die, and briefly considered turning to prayer, if only to appease Michael on my deathbed.

We crossed over the concrete dividers, missing them by mere inches.

And then the tires of Sanya's bike struck asphalt, throwing me down in my seat. A searing pain erupted in my nose as I smacked my face on the cart.

"The finest product of classic engineering!" Shouted Sanya, his eyes alight with a childish glee I'd never seen before. He patted the gas tank with his free hand, stroking it affectionately, like one would a cherished pet.

"Fuhuhh!" I replied, gripping my face.

We pulled up alongside the vehicle. Apparently, the passengers in the SUV didn't share Sanya's enthusiasm about his motorcycle, because the automatic they'd used earlier emerged from the window yet again.

Sanya had anticipated that, and wasn't going to give them a chance to fire off another shot. I watched, through bloodied fingers, as the Russian knight drew _Esperacchius_ from its scabbard at his hip. The cavalry saber descended in a flashing arc and removed the gunman's hand at the wrist, like a hot knife though I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter.

I heard an agonized scream, and then the window rolled up. The vehicle took a sharp left, blowing through a red light, tires squealing.

"Tail them! They're heading to ground!" I shouted, hands still gripping my nose. It wasn't my most heroic moment, but then again, everyone needs a chance to shine.

Sanya's had arrived.

With a devil-may-care grin, Sanya pulled in the clutch, speeding towards a busy intersection at nearly eighty miles an hour. As he entered the intersection, he leaned hard to the side, like one of those professional racers you see on television. The foot pedals on his side of the bike screeched as they gouged into the roadway. The sidecar physically lifted off the ground, and I was nearly thrown from it.

I was pretty sure cruisers weren't meant to work that way, but apparently, no one ever told Sanya that. We blazed a path of sparks through the intersection, narrowly skimming between three lanes of traffic without so much as scratching the paint.

"Sanya?" I asked, beyond all hysteria. I sat there, in the sidecar, my expression blank.

"Dah?" He asked, his eyes on the road.

"Remind me to wear my seat belt next time."

He snorted, and sheathed his sword. It was only then that I realized he'd made the turn one-handed.

We tailed the SUV for a few moments more, before it ducked into an alleyway beside a meat packing plant. Sanya slammed on the brakes, and as the motorcycle skidded to a halt, I leaped out of the sidecar and drew my blasting rod, prepared for a counterattack. We had them pinned. Four men, clad in black paramilitary gear, hopped out of the SUV – one clutching the stump of his arm – and before they could go much further, I shouted at them.

"Stop! Don't move!" I cried, and with a minute effort of will, the tip of my blasting rod glowed with soulfire.

Two of the men raised their hands in surrender. Another raised his stump.

The fourth man, however, didn't. It was the man from the roof, the same man who'd been packing the heavy rifle. I could tell, because that same rifle was slung across his back. In a motion as quick and easy as grabbing your wallet from your back pocket, he twisted his his, sending the rifle flying into his waiting hands, and fired it from the hip.

It was an impressive feat. The rifle was was a good four feet long from stock to barrel, and had to be incredibly heavy. He maneuvered the beast of a gun like it was an extension of his body, pointing it squarely at my the center of my center of mass out of reflex. I didn't have time to raise a shield, and if I didn't move, I'd be swiss cheese.

I ducked back and away, flinching at the sound of gunfire, the bullet passing inches from my chest – and when I opened my eyes, the men were gone, passing through a gate into the Nevernever.

I growled, and thumped my staff angrily on the concrete. Winter's fury rushed through me in the span of a heartbeat, and I felt the sweat I'd worked up during the chase crystallizing into little slivers of ice. The cold didn't bother me in the slightest – if anything, it fueled my anger, fueled the rage that burned inside of me.

"Go on, Harry. Open a way. We can't let them get away, not after what they nearly did," grunted Sanya, _Esperacchius_ held aloft in his massive arms. We shared a look, and I knew that despite his position as a Knight of the Cross, Sanya shared the same anger I did.

Our people had been threatened. Michael, Charity, the kids, Maggie... all of them had been put in danger because I'd been a target. The people we cared about had nearly been collateral damage, casualties in a war they weren't a part of.

In trying to kill my people, they had incurred a debt, and I always made good on my bargains. I would make them suffer in kind. I saw myself rending the sniper and his goons limb from limb, impaling them with my hands, fingernails lengthened into talons of ice, and ripping their hearts out. I would make them and their loved ones regret they day they _dared_ to threaten the Carpenters.

I took a step back, shocked by the intensity of the emotion that was running through me. I ran through prime numbers in my head – an old trick I'd learned, using logic to stifle the anger that came with using Winter's power. Slowly but surely, the rage left, leaving a sense of nausea and emptiness in its wake.

With a clear head, I weighed our options. The right course of action was obvious; I didn't even need to run the numbers.

"Can't," I replied shortly. "They're pros. Wherever they just went is probably the group's fallback point. There's no telling what we'll find on the other side. It's probably trapped, tailored to us. If we walk in there, we die."

If I were a hit-man, that was what I'd do. I'd run into too many professionals, and by this point they were getting predictable. Still, predictability doesn't make a man any less dangerous. This was an organized hit squad – and worse, they had a wizard on retainder, or something that could open Ways into the Nevernever. With those resources, there was no telling what we'd find ourselves up against if we crossed over.

The Russian looked like he wanted to protest. He was headstrong, and passionate - but then, so were a lot of dead men.

I met Sanya's glare with my own. "If we're gone, then there will be no one to train Butters, or protect the Carpenters. You're the last active knight, and we need you alive."

Sanya considered my words for a few moments, then spat out a curse. He turned his back on the alley, and stalked over to his motorcycle. "Fine. Let's go back. Check on Michael and the children."

I swallowed what remained of my anger, turned on my heel, and followed Sanya.

We rode back to the Carpenter's in silence, the kind that lingers in the aftermath of a bitter defeat.

* * *

 **[Murphy Talks Guns: Remington 700 .338 Lapua]  
**  
Originally designed for warfare, the .338 Lapua is designed to be able to penetrate five separate layers of military body armor and still kill a target at a distance of 1000 meters. The firearm was designed as an anti-personnel weapon, capable of penetrating armored vehicles, barricades, and walls with standard, unmodified ammunition. It has become favored by military and hunting enthusiasts in the last fifteen years due to the sheer accuracy and penetration afforded by its use, and when paired with anti-material rounds, has unparalleled killling power.

In the words of Karrin Murphy, "Firing one of these at a deer, or even a small bear, would be overkill. There would be nothing left. If you shot it at someone intruding your home, it would go through them, the door behind them, the wall behind that, your car parked in the driveway, your neighbor's car, your neighbor's wall, and finally through your neighbor."

 **[Bob Talks Magic: Runes of the Sidhe]**

Fae are creatures of magic, and therefore control it to a far greater degree than most mortals ever hope to attain. They do not need traditional foci in order to perform complex magics, and are only limited in their applications of magic by the limitations of their origin. For example, Mab, Queen of the Winter Court, has absolute control over ice and darkness, and does not need a wand or staff in order to perform her arts in either field; she _is_ these things, or, put more accurately, they are an extension of herself.

The true power of the Sidhe lies in their use of runes. Sidhe Runes, like their creators, are a physical manifestation of pure magic. They are runes of creation, the sort that establish natural laws. They have no consciousness and no will, nor do they possess any power on their own, but they can be used by as a focal point, enabling the wielder to cast spells of high Authority and Divinity. A notable example of an artifact inscribed with Sidhe Runes is the Stone Table, which possesses the ability to funnel outside energy into the Courts and has the potential to permanently upset the balance of power between the Courts if abused.

However, due to the ancient and complex nature of the Sidhe Runes, few if any of the fae possess the strength to create them, and fewer still have the Will to fuel their use. Those that do know how to inscribe and wield runes seldom use their ability, because the cost is quite high.

In the words of Bob the Skull, "Don't touch that, Harry. Please. For the love of Katy Perry and her beautiful assets, _don't_. _Touch_. _That_."


	5. Chapter 5

I knocked on the Carpenter's front door. It was more of a formality than anything else – the door was hanging off of its hinges, and I could have opened it myself – but I didn't want to spook the kids after everything that had just happened. Normalcy, routine, is something you only appreciate after it's gone, and the last thing I wanted to do was disrupt whatever calm had managed to fall in the aftermath of the gunshot.

Charity approached the door, and eyed Sanya and I quietly. Her auburn hair was mussed, and her clothing disheveled, stained with dust and grease. A loaded shotgun was cradled in her arms, her finger inches from the trigger.

I shifted uncomfortably where I stood, and glanced away, unable to look her in the face. A question was on her lips, and she seemed to be searching for something – but apparently, whatever answer she was looking for, she found in my expression.

"Got away, huh." Her tone was conversational, but her fists were clenched knuckle-white. A pregnant silence filled the air between us. Then, the anger seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a weariness I'd seen all too often. Her eyes danced over the both of us – checking for injuries, I thought – and she grimaced.

"Right. Come on in," she murmured, and opened the door. She turned her back on Sanya and I and walked into the house, her expression schooled, chiseled, unafraid.

I shared a look with Sanya, and then crossed the threshold of the Carpenter's home. It was like stepping through a wall of cob webs that danced across my skin and tingled with power. The barrier parted around me as I entered. Sanya followed shortly behind me, his footfalls heavy, his brow furrowed, one hand on the hilt of his the sword sheathed at his hip.

Brick chunks crackled beneath my boots on the hardwood floor. I winced, and glanced around.

I'd become intimately familiar with the Carpenter's place in the last few months. The front doors opened up to a foyer, with a stairwell on the far side that led up to the children's rooms. The walls were made of rich, lacquered wood, and you couldn't throw a stone in the house without hitting a cross or a family photo. Usually when I came to visit, the place had a rustic, country feel to it, and smelled like pine needles and cooking food. Most of the furniture was handmade, courtesy of Michael and his skill with woodworking. It was home in every sense of the word.

Today, the Carpenter's home look different.

It looked like it had been ransacked, or used for the set of a post-apocalyptic war film. The kitchen table was on its side and moved out into the hallway, positioned like a barricade. The hallway was coated with a fine layer of plaster dust, which also hung in the air like some sort of thick miasma. There was a single hole on either side of the hallway, roughly the size of my fist, where the sniper's first round had punched clean through. Water sprayed from one of the holes – evidently the sniper's round had pierced a water pipe, which was now letting out a fine mist and flooding the hallway, washing away the grime and staining the floor an ugly brown. I stepped around the damaged pipe, trying to avoid the grasping mist. I failed spectacularly, of course, getting a face-full of cold water that blinded me for a moment. I ran my hand over my eyes, clearing them.

I glanced into the kitchen, and stiffened. I could see the hole where the sniper had taken his shot... and it looked even bigger from inside than it did from the porch. The hole was nearly as big as my head. Half-eaten food stained the floor, mingling with shards of broken glass and shattered plates. The chairs were upended and tossed about, like they'd been caught in a hurricane.

And in the center of it all was a pool of blood.

The sight of it made me stiffen. It was like a nail had driven itself into my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I stopped where I stood, staring at the blood, my mind racing a mile a minute.

There wasn't a lot to the pool, and it was small as far as pools of blood go, but my lovely imagination reminded me that children didn't have a lot of blood in the first place. I imagined Maggie, pale and cold, her eyes slipping shut, a hole torn through her by a bullet meant for me.

Not even Charity's reassurance could hold those images at bay. Sometimes, my mind is my own worst enemy.

I took a deep breath, and detached myself from the panic, locking it away in a box in the corner of my mind. Yes, the people I cared about had come inches from becoming swiss cheese. Yes, it was probably my fault. But the fighting was over, and panicking wouldn't help things.

I turned stepped around the improvised barricade and walked to the living room. In spite of myself, my steps were rushed, nervous. I'd broken into a cold sweat. All of the little details I'd been so concerned with taking in didn't matter. The only detail that mattered was whether or not my daughter had been hurt.

And if she had...

I barely touched the ground as I ran. The sitting room was only twenty feet away, a mere three seconds of walking, but it didn't matter. I burst into the sitting room, staff clenched tightly in my hand.

"Maggie!" I shouted. It came out as a croak – I could barely speak, I realized.

Five pairs of eyes looked up at me as I entered.

Michael sat on the family couch, and his son Harry sat beside him. Charity and Butters stood beside them, apparently in the middle of a hushed conversation that I'd just interrupted. Mouse lay belly-down on the floor.

And then, I heard a voice... a high-pitched cry that could only belong to one person. "Daddy!"

Maggie, who had been sitting behind Mouse, stood up and ran to me. I stood there as she ran into my legs, wrapping me in a hug at the waist. She was only a kid, but she was getting to be so tall. Maggie was probably going to take after me in the height department one day, but that was a ways off.

She was practically swallowed by my duster. I placed my hand on her shoulder, and dropped to my knees, trying to get a good look at her, making sure she was okay. Her skin was smooth to the touch, unmarred, as I brushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, and cupped her cheek with my hand. I set my staff down and began checking her for injuries. Her hand was wrapped in medical gauze – it was wadded up around her tiny fingers in a big ball, making her look even smaller than she was.

Mouse, affectionate as ever, padded up behind her and started licking at my hand. I snorted, and gave him a good scratch behind the ears.

"Daddy, 'm okay." She said, grinning up at me. I felt a wave of relief wash through me, something palpable and much needed. Charity and I exchanged a knowing look, the kind that all parents share. Whatever our differences, Charity and I had and would work through them, for the simple fact that we both cared about our children.

Maggie nodded, in that way only a child can. "Yeah, 'm great. I cut my hand on some glass, but I didn't cry 'cause I knew you'd be back. See?" She held up her hand for my inspection. I closed mine around hers, and squeezed it gently.

"I see, I see," I murmured. I'm not ashamed to say I may have shed a manly tear. She giggled as I kissed her forehead. "You're very strong, Maggie. I'm glad you're okay. Did Charity fix you up?"

"No! Mister Wally did though."

"Mister... Wally?" I asked, blinking. I glanced at Butters for a moment. The little guy had filled out in the last two months, since he started his training to become a Knight of the Cross. He stood just a little over five feet – he was even shorter than Murphy – but he'd really filled out. I'm wasn't sure what Charity had been feeding him, but he looked... denser. He was all lean muscle, and when he moved, it was with a confidence and surety he didn't have before.

I wasn't surprised that he'd patched up Maggie's hand. He was a former forensics analyst with Chicago PD, who had patched me up a number of times when I'd needed medical help with no questions asked. He was pretty damned good at it, too: as the saying goes, necessity breeds skill. He wasn't working in forensics these days – being a Knight was a full-time commitment, so he'd put in for an early retirement, in order to 'pursue higher education' and spend his days 'traveling and teaching'.

Of course, he'd avoided mentioning specifics. Telling Chicago PD that he was quitting to slay demons and spread justice through the world wouldn't exactly endear him to the higher-ups, and they had the final say on whether or not he kept his pension.

"Yeah," Maggie said, "He's really cool. And he's small, like me, but he's the best. And he's got a..." She scrunched up her nose in that way that kids do when they get frustrated. She was still a little young, and hadn't gotten a firm grasp on the English language yet.

"...a lightsaber?" I prompted.

"Yeah! Like in Star Wars!" Maggie grinned. "I want to be a Jedi too!"

I laughed. It was a deep laugh, a warm laugh, straight from the belly. I ran my fingers through her hair and messed it up, but she didn't seem to mind too much, her grin still firmly in place.

"One day, Padawan. One day," I said. I opened my mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a thick Russian baritone.

"Harry? I need to speak with you for a moment. Privately, if you would not mind."

I'd nearly forgotten that Sanya was in the room with us. After I'd become absorbed in chatting with Maggie, he'd walked over to Michael and had a conversation of his own. Apparently, he had some information for me. He smiled at me, but it looked forced, like he'd swallowed a lemon – Sanya wasn't much for acting. It was probably was more for my daughter's benefit than anything else.

Instead of answering him, I turned back to Maggie. "Hey... I've got to talk to Sanya for a little bit, okay?"

"Okay! I'm gonna go see Mister Wally. Come on, Mouse." She said, putting her hand in Mouse's fur. My dog let out an amused huff and stood, towering over Maggie. He walked her across the room, to Butters and Charity, before curling up at their feet.

I watched Maggie go, and sighed tiredly. The hits never seemed to stop coming. Sanya stood at my side, watching the same scene I was, and looking just as resigned. "What's the word?"

"Mixed," he said. "Carpenters are okay. Home needs to be fixed. So does your truck." I nodded – that much was obvious to me.

"Michael was in shock, but has recovered. He is... not young anymore, and the stress of battle is not healthy for him," the Russian continued. He folded his arms across his broad chest. "But, he lives. He called for a tow, which should be here for you shortly."

I blinked, surprised. "Oh. Sweet. That's one less thing on tonight's to-do list."

Sanya wasn't finished, though. "Also, something else. While we were gone, Murphy called. She mentioned something coming up, and wanted you to return home by eight o'clock."

I glanced at the Carpenter's prized grandfather clock, which was propped up in the corner of the room beside the hearth. It was an old, worn model, having belonged to Michael's great-grandparents, but it was well-cared for in spits of its age, made of oak wood inlaid with golden bands. The hands were positioned at 7:45p.m.

"Well, so much for that," I muttered. I could imagine how pissed she'd be at me – Murphy ran a tight ship.

Sanya, apparently finished, backed away – only to pause mid-step, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Also. Your face resembles... the woodland creature that likes to eat out of garbage bins. A... raccoon, yes? It may do you good to wash up a little before you return to Murphy. She does not seem to be the forgiving type."

"...Right. Nose is probably broken. Remind me to never to ride in that damned sidecar ever again." I scowled, before shoving my hands into my duster pockets. A broken nose was something easily fixed, and I knew that the Winter Mantle would dull the pain, but that didn't make the experience pleasant. "I'll get on it."

I excused myself and stalked over to the restroom, my lips set into a hard line. The door was propped open by a piece of fallen debris. I nudged the plaster fragments aside with the tip of my boot and stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind me. It creaked on its hinges at it did.

The restroom light was already on, and a first aid kit was on the counter, probably left by Butters after he'd finished helping Molly with her hand. I fumbled with the kit, popping it open.

A stranger stared back at me as I looked into the mirror. My eyes were dark and sunken, true to Sanya's word, and my nose was a little crooked. I hadn't shaved since the night before, and in that time I'd managed to grow a scraggly, thick, five-o-clock shadow. My face was covered with dirt from the road, dust, and small scratches, as well as creeping tendrils of blood that had spread from my broken nose, coating the bottom half of my face like war paint. Additionally, while my duster had saved me from taking a few bullets on the road, it had come at a cost; there were rough abrasions in the fine leather, and a large tear near my armpit. The duster hung a little loosely about my frame.

In short, I looked like a crazed homeless person. I was surprised that Maggie had recognized me when I'd shown up, let alone hugged me.

I washed my face in cool, clear water, sprinkling the sink with dried blood and dirt. I ran fingers through my hair, trying to straighten it out, though I didn't have much luck. Popping my nose back into place was a pain in the ass, but I managed. I gripped my nose between my fingers and dragged it outwards. And then, that business finished, I decided to take off my duster, so that I could take a closer look at my arm.

It was then that I noticed it. In all the action, I hadn't realized I'd gotten a pretty nasty cut on the back of my left hand. I'd thought I'd probably gotten it when I'd tried to stop the sniper's bullet with a hastily conjured shield – the bullet must have fragmented, and I'd been grazed by the shards as they'd whizzed by me at subsonic speeds.

It looked like someone had taken a fine blade to my skin, like a boxcutter or a razor, and had slashed a tribal tattoo into it. The cuts traveled from the back of my hand down to the wrist. I sighed, figuring that I'd need stitches, and would have to submit to Charity's needlework, putting off Murphy for another hour or two.

But I couldn't afford to wait that long. Whatever Murphy needed sounded pretty serious, and the cuts weren't painful. I ran my bloodied hand under hot water, patted it dry with a clean towel, and wrapped it in gauze from the first aid kit.

The tow truck arrived minutes later. I'm pretty sure it was the same tow truck that Sanya and I vaulted on the highway, because the driver kept giving me strange looks. That, or it was my bloodied appearance and the bullet holes in my truck that he'd taken offense to. Either way, as long as he towed my ride to Mike's, I didn't care. We conducted a little business, I dropped him a Benjamin on the sly, and he agreed to give me a ride back to Murphy's.

When I told Sanya that I was never riding in his sidecar again, I meant it.

Before I left, Charity pulled me aside. "Listen," she'd said, "I'm... a little worried about Michael. That shot was a little close for comfort, and it rattled him." There was something she wasn't telling me, but I didn't press the issue. "I think it'd be best if he stayed off the battlefield for a little bit."

I nodded. I wasn't sure how much good my promise would do, but I made it anyway. Michael had my back countless times, and the least I could do was ensure that he stayed safe. "Alright. I'll do my best to keep him safe and out of the fighting."

Charity breathed a sigh of relief, and walked back into the house. I watched her go, and I felt a knot of worry settle in my gut.

The weight I'd lost when I saw Maggie returned in full force - the weight of a promise. "Hell's bells... I hope I can keep this one," I murmured.

* * *

 **[Sanya Talks Bikes: 1940 Indian 340-B]**

During World War II, the now-defunct Indian Motorcycle Manufacturing Company began producing motorcycles for use by United States infantrymen. They were designed to be fuel-efficient and powerful, capable of traveling long distances without being refueled, so that scouts could explore enemy territory and successfully navigate barricaded roads with minimal hassle.

The most popular of these models was the 1940 Indian 340-B. With a 1210cc, Four Stroke 42° V-twin Engine, the 340-B was popular for its fast rate of acceleration, fuel efficiency, and raw power.

Nowadays, Indian motorcycles are rare, as the brand shop closed in the 1950's. Still, their legacy is alive and well. The company was known as the classic American brand before Harley-Davidson entered the spotlight.

In the words of Sanya, "She is a great machine. Strong, fast, loud. Very much like Murphy: Tiny, but _fierce_."


	6. Chapter 6

I stepped down from the tow truck, raising a hand in thanks to the driver. He gave me a short nod, and drove away.

The sun had set, and the stars were out in all their glory. As I walked up Murphy's driveway, the proximity lights flickered on. One of them fizzled for a moment, and then popped violently. I grimaced. Apparently, my emotions still weren't entirely in check.

I walked up the driveway and along the paved path to the front door... and noticed something odd. There was an unfamiliar car in the driveway, a grey Impala with a Chicago plate, government issue. I committed the license plate number to memory, just to be safe, and then continued walking.

Murphy's home looked just as pristine and old-fashioned on the outside as it did on the inside. Two stories tall and painted white, with a picket fence and cobblestone walkways. It screamed _'suburban middle class'_ like a pair of white tourists wearing matching t-shirts. The windows were framed by thick, scarlet curtains. There was a flag pole beside the driveway, hosting an American flag, as well as a simple black flag bisected by a horizontal blue line.

I noticed something else. Murphy'd said she'd be waiting for me to get home. Even if I wasn't on time, you can bet she'd wait up for me. That's the kind of person she was.

All of the lights were off.

Paranoia reared its ugly head, and I reached into my duster, my hand settling loosely about the .357. I approached the front door, careful to avoid standing directly in front of any windows, and leaned against the door

I reached into my pocket with my off-hand, fumbling for my keys, with my revolver pointed at the entry. It was a little more difficult than usual due to the gauze, but I managed. I pulled them out, and slowly reached my hand towards the steel knob.

The door opened before I could stick the keys in the lock.

Murphy's eyes met mine. She was hunkered back in the darkness, a pistol in one hand and _Amoracchius_ in the other. She struck me with a fierce look – like for a moment, she didn't recognize me, and she was trying to figure out the best part of my body to shoot first.

Recognition dawned in her eyes, and her expression softened, but not by much. Her brow furrowed, and her lips pursed. I'd become intimately familiar with that face - it meant bad things. I gulped, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and lowered my revolver.

"Get inside," she said. She hobbled back from the door, supporting herself almost entirely on her good leg. As I entered, I noticed something different about the foyer. She'd set up a chair, facing the door. Across the seat lay a semi-automatic rifle, with one of those feeder belts that held hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Beside it lay a box of grenades, along with some sort of electronic remote. I went to close the door, only to notice that the doorway was lined with a sticky, clay-like substance, with a steel pin sticking out right next to the handle.

Hell's bells. She'd rigged the doorway with freaking _plastic explosives_.

I paused, reeling. "Murphy, are you alright?"

"Fine," she said stiffly. "Riding the tail end of a wake-up call."

She must have felt my look. "Heard what happened at Michael's," she said shortly. "Didn't want to be unprepared."

"For what, an army? You've got enough ordinance there to start World War Three." I said, incredulous, and very glad that she'd been able to tell who I was despite my recent makeover.

"For whatever they send after you," she replied. Her tone was hard and passionate. I felt pride beat hard in my chest, and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Aww, Murphy. I'm touched," I said. She eyed me strangely, and I gestured to the chair.

"To my mind, nothing says 'I love you' like offering to gun down my enemies. I feel like our relationship's gone up a stage. You going to buy me a ring to go with these keys?" I asked, dangling her house keys like a cat toy. She batted them aside furiously.

"Shut up, and get in the kitchen," she growled, a light blush marring her cheeks. One of her fingers in her gun hand twitched closer to the trigger.

I raised my hands in open surrender, mouthing 'domestic abuse', turned on my heels, and marched. As I tactically retreated, I heard a very unladylike snort.

Score one for the away team.

"Oh, and by the way. Don't think I've forgotten that you came home late. Chase or no chase, you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

...Well, so much for that.

As we entered the kitchen, I took note of the carved wooden skull that was placed in the center of the kitchen table. Normally, it was on the hearth, or accompanied Murphy in her study. It was something I'd made myself, a process that took nearly a year, and Murphy appreciated having it around.

However, the skull was more than just a conversation piece. The wood was inscribed with runes and sigils, much like Bob's skull was. It was originally designed as a vacation home of sorts for Bob, but had been repurposed. Instead, it had been given to another spirit.

Its eyes glowed snow white, and flickered brightly like a candle flame.

"Welcome home, father!" It said a disembodied voice, that of a girl in her young teens.

That voice belonged to Ilya, a spirit of intellect that lived inside the skull, who was also also my second daughter. Long story short, my soul got freaky with the shadow of a fallen angel, and Ilya was my brain baby.

I touched the skull affectionately, running my hands over the runes, and took a seat at the table, easing into an old oaken chair that creaked beneath my weight. At my touch, Ilya giggled, in a way that reminded me of Maggie and Molly rolled into one.

Which made sense – Ilya was a product of my soul, of the memories I had of the people in my life that had shaped me into the person I became. I'd seen what she looked like, once – what she _really_ looked like – when she was still incubating in my head. She had Susan's nose, Murphy's eyes, and Luccio's jawline: little bits and pieces of the women who had been in my life at one point or another. Her voice was an extension of that.

"Are you okay? Did you kill those motherfuckers?" She asked excitedly. I glared at the Ilya's skull, and the pale lights in her eyes shrunk a little.

She also swore like a sailor. I wasn't sure which of the women in my life she'd gotten _that_ from.

"Language, Ilya," I warned, my tone stern. "Cool it. You shouldn't be swearing for at least another eighteen years."

"But Karrin swears all the time!" She protested, every inch the petulant child.

So _that's_ where she got it.

"She's a cop. Cops swear." I pointed out. It seemed, however, that my wisdom fell on deaf ears.

"I'm a cop too!" The skull hopped up and down earnestly.

When I'd moved into Murphy's place, I'd brought her along with me. It wasn't long before I realized that Ilya had taken after me in the personality department, complete with possessing a fierce protective streak. It was at her suggestion that I'd installed customized wards around the home, using her skull as a focus; Ilya possessed total awareness of the house and its surroundings, much like a _genus loci_ , and served as a spiritual surveillance and early warning system. If I was Batman, she was my Oracle.

More than that, though, she was a member of our little family. She'd been helping keep Murphy company while I was away, and though Murphy wasn't particularly fond of kids, she'd made an exception for Ilya. I imagined it was because she didn't have to cook.

"Murph," I said, "Back me up here."

Murphy rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. The motion did interesting things to her figure, as did the smirk she wore. "This is one battle you're going to have to fight solo, Harry." Her tone was as dry as a freaking desert.

I ran a hand through my hair and let out a sharp sigh. Discretion, as they say, is the better part of valor. "Look. I'm sorry I came home late. I didn't mean to upset you, and I promise I'll try not to do it again."

Murphy remained silent for a moment, and then turned to Ilya. "Sorry, squirt, but your dad's got a point," she said. "Good kids don't swear. You want to be a good kid for your daddy, right?"

"Yeah, of course!" Ilya exclaimed. Stars and stones, her voice was cute.

"Then stop doing it," Murphy deadpanned. She folded her arms across her chest, and settled onto her back foot.

"Shit, that'll be hard. Um... okay. I'll try." The skull settled back down on the table, and clicked it's mandibles.

"Good girl," Murphy said. "Now, can you give us a little space? We've got some adult things we need to talk about."

"...Fine," Ilya mumbled, dejected. The skull's eye lights flickered out.

There was a pregnant silence, and something in Murphy's demeanor changed. All humor left her eyes. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, like a professional weightlifter getting ready for another set.

Murphy glanced over her shoulder. "John, we're ready."

I heard a creak from the living room couch, and then approaching footsteps as Lieutenant John Stallings entered the kitchen.

Stallings was the current head of the Special Investigations division of Chicago PD. He'd been appointed in Murphy's place after she had been demoted, but the appointment had been against his own interests. He knew Murphy's father, and had a lot of respect for Murphy, but didn't have any other choice. If he hadn't taken the position, it would have likely fallen into the hands of someone who denied the supernatural world even existed. S.I., comprised with men and women who dealt with those threats on a daily basis, couldn't afford to be hampered by a Lieutenant that couldn't get with the program.

Stallings consulted Murphy regularly regrading events in the supernatural world, and they maintained a steady, albeit strained friendship. His appearance here, and the manila envelope in the crook of his arm, were probably an ill omen.

He was an older man, likely in his mid-fifties, with dark skin, a thick mustache, and a physique of old muscle that said ' _you don't want to fuck with me_ '. He was well-dressed, wearing a fitted pinstripe suit and a blue-gray dress shirt, no tie.

"Mr. Dresden," he said, "back in town, at long last. Good to see you." His voice was low and rough, like one of those late night radio hosts. I shook his hand.

"I'm not sure if I can say the same," I replied, eyeing the envelope pointedly. He grimaced, and took a seat.

"You'd be right in assuming I'm not here for a friendly visit, though I wish that were the case. Tonight, I'm here on business."

"Lay it on me," I replied. I didn't even need to consider it. Whatever opportunity I had to help out the boys in blue, I'd make the most of. "I'm case-free at the moment and could use a little work."

Stallings glanced at Murphy. "Well then, it seems that you're in luck, Mr. Dresden."

Stallings reached across the table and handed me a manila envelope, unmarked. I popped the seal and pulled out a few documents and a small stack of photographs.

"A lot of children have gone missing in the last few months. I'm sure you've heard as much on the news." I nodded, skimming the paperwork with a careful eye.

"What you aren't aware of are the actual numbers. Nearly a thousand children have been reported missing in the last three months alone, and more before that. That's not counting the ones we don't know about." I looked up from the packet, surprised. Stalling's expression was grim, more so than I'd ever seen before. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and gestured to the envelope in my hands.

"Most of them were transients, you see – gang members, orphans, homeless – so their disappearances haven't been noticed by the general public. We've suppressed the numbers to avoid causing a panic, while S.I. has been run ragged trying to find out what the hell's going on." He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb, and every single one of his fifty-plus years showed.

I skimmed through the photographs, one by one. There was a portrait of a Hispanic kid, maybe six, missing both of his front teeth, the word 'missing' stamped into the paper. Another photograph featured a white girl of about the same age, blond, wearing a bubblegum-pink dress, holding a woman's hand. Her mother, I presumed. That same stamp covered her eyes – 'missing'. Thick, black, and permanent.

 _Missing. Missing, missing, missing, missing -_

I thumbed through the photographs, my heart sinking with each one. Even a year ago, I wouldn't have been affected this badly. Spending time with Maggie, I reasoned, had made me more... sensitive, to things like this. Every face I saw reminded me of hers. Coupled with the events of the past few hours, I was ready to start a one-man crusade. I rapped my foot impatiently on the kitchen floor.

"We've recovered some of the children, but... these kids... they aren't..." Stallings scowled. "It's like they've just laid down and died. They don't drink, eat, speak... one by one they're just wasting away."

He shook his head, and for a moment, he looked like he was going to vomit. Then, with a deep breath, he composed himself. "Something's at play here, and the boys don't like it. We're just not equipped to handle something like this. Hell, even Chicago's hospitals aren't equipped. They've got their coma wards filled with children and not a damned clue what they're doing."

"S.I. might not be equipped, but I am," I said, my tone clipped. "I'll get on it." I was already in the planning stage, running the numbers, figuring out which bases I needed to cover, setting up an away team.

"Mr. Dresden, you have no idea how much that means to the boys and I. We weren't able to get any funding authorized, but we did put together a little spare change." He pulled out another envelope and set it on the table. This one was white, and from the way it looked, over-stuffed, I guessed that it was filled with hard cash.

"Keep your change," I said shortly. "This one's personal. Free of charge."

Stallings sat there, still as a statue, making no move to take back the envelope. He was persistent, if nothing else.

I looked up, and my expression softened a little. "Take the money and save it for when those kids are safe. Then, if you want, you can buy the boys a round of drinks, on me."

Stallings chuckled - a sound like granite rumbling on concrete – and took back the envelope. "Sounds like a plan to me. Can I call you Harry?"

"Sure," I said. I close the manilla envelope and set it on the table.

"Harry, do you think they're... still alive?" His voice, once smooth and controlled, had a hint of... desperation in it.

"Would you prefer a lie or the truth?" I asked, and steepled my hands.

"The truth. Even if it's hard." Stallings said firmly. "My niece is missing. Has been for two weeks. I need to know whether or not I'm going to find her, alive, and take her home to my son, or if I'm taking her to the morgue."

I shared a look with Murphy. She nodded.

"...I don't know," I said quietly. "There are only a few things that could cause something like this to happen. I'll need to talk to some people, and take a look at the kids, before I can give you an answer."

Stallings closed his eyes, his expression pained. Then, he composed himself once more, and stood.

"Thank you for your time, Harry," he said. I could tell that he was unsettled, but grateful nonetheless for the truth. He held out a hand, and I shook it. "Call me if you find out anything we can use. Murphy's got my number."

He left as quietly as he entered, the front door latching behind him with a soft click.

Murphy put a hand on my shoulder, and sighed softly. We didn't speak for a little while; we didn't have to. When you know someone for nearly fifteen years, you learn to talk in other ways. The little things – a tick of the head, a light squeeze, a glance to the floor – spoke volumes, more than words ever could.

"What do you think?" She finally asked, bowing her head.

"The Fomor," I said immediately. "They've been abducting kids for some time. I don't know why, but the state of the recovered kids reeks of black magic. The kidnapping has probably a means to an end. What they've got planned, and who's behind it, I have no idea."

"...They're organized?" Her voice was steady, but I could tell when she was worried. Her right hand twitched a little, as if to go for her gun. _Dammit._

"What they're doing is... huge. Kidnapping one or two kids here and there would be easy. But... this many, in such a short time span, the only targets being people who whose disappearance wouldn't be noticed?" I scowled, and clenched my fists tightly on the table, a hot rage pouring through me.

 _-missing, missing, missing-_

"This reeks of foul play. My guess is that the rest of the kids are out there, somewhere," I continued, my voice bitter. "I don't know where they've been taken. I don't know who's pulling the strings, or why they've been doing it. But whoever it is has the resources and influence to recruit the Fomor and control their movements. Someone's playing puppetmaster and is damned good at it."

The gravity of the situation and taken some time to sink in, but it hit me in the gut with all the subtlety and strength of a sledgehammer. I was going to war again, and this time, Murphy wouldn't be able to help me. Just like Michael, she was sidelined – and I'd have to work things out by myself, a prospect that didn't thrill either of us, against someone with enough clout to make thousands of people disappear without a trace.

It went unsaid that making one more person vanish wouldn't be too difficult for whatever terror had snared Chicago.

"...You're going out again." She sounded almost wistful, but there was a bitterness in her voice that I picked up on. "I was hoping you'd have the night in, but... I understand."

I rested my hand on hers, and ran my thumb across it. "I'll be back in a few hours," I whispered. "I have a lead I want to check, and the longer I wait, the more kids go missing. I can't afford any setbacks." Then, I stood, turning my back on Murphy, and snatched her car out of the forest-green ammo can that doubled as her wallet box. I whirled the key ring around a finger and slipped it into my pocket. I made the for the door.

"Wait, Harry," she began. I paused, mid-stride, and turned back. Her golden hair was illuminated from behind by the dim kitchen lighting, and framed her baby blues like a halo.

"...You know that the odds of kidnapping victims surviving decreases every day," Murphy said hesitantly. "...Do you really think you'll save those kids?"

 _-missing, missing, missing..._

The photographs flashed through my mind. In each of them, I saw Maggie, staring up at me, knobby-kneed, doe-eyed, and smiling.

Statistics say that the chance of recovering a kidnapping victim reduces by up to forty percent every day for the first three; after the third or fourth day, the odds are extremely low, and searches are usually called off. By the time I'd agreed to take the case, some of them had been missing for months, and it didn't take a quick learner to understand the implications.

Ebenezar, my mentor, had always told me I was a terrible student: no respect for authority, no patience, and no concern for the facts. And that, he'd told me, was my greatest strength.

"I don't _think_ I will," I said, standing. I turned to face the woman I loved, and met her gaze. "I _will_."

Murphy's eyes got strangely bright at the edges. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but didn't.

I didn't give her the chance. I kept walking, before those eyes trapped me. There was no time for rest, no time to indulge in luxury. As much as it pained me to leave, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I stayed.

I had work to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Whatever projects I had prior to Stallings' visit had been put on the back burner. The situation was dire. I needed answers, and I needed them fast, to prevent more kids from disappearing. I needed to figure out _what_ had happened to them, and how – more important, though, were they _why_ and the _who_. I had a few hunches, but needed more to work with.

All of that considered, I knew I had two stops to make that night. The first was Chicago's own Northwest Memorial Hospital.

For those of you who haven't seen it, it's one of the top ten hospitals for medical research in the country. It's a place where some of the greatest scientific minds come together to protect and preserve human lives.

It's a tall building, even in comparison to the skyscrapers and high-rise apartments that populate Chicago's downtown area, with floor-to-ceiling plexiglass windows framed by concrete and steel. The parking lot was freshly paved, something of an anomaly in downtown Chicago, and the lot was well lit. At Northwest, some of the greatest minds the sciences have to offer come together to protect and preserve human lives. It also has a coma ward and research center on the tenth floor, the kind that kids would be sent to if, say, they began dropping like flies.

I knew that if I got the chance to take a peek at one of the kids, I might get some answers.

I pulled into the parking lot, and checked the little electric clock on the dashboard. I scowled at the sight – the magic I was putting off was messing with it, causing the display to twitch and spasm like a dying bug. The radio clicked on, and muffled static buzzed through the speakers. I shut the radio off manually, and managed to make out the numbers 8, 3 and 0 before the display outright died.

I cursed. Murphy was going to be pissed. I wasn't quite sure why my magic was getting so out of hand. My emotions must have still been reeling from earlier in the night, and for whatever reason, they hadn't settled down. As a wizard, emotional control had never been my strong suit, but I'd always been able to control the way it influenced my magic. I'd always been able to use my emotions like tools, putting them away until they were needed, even if it took some serious effort.

Not that night, though. Apparently, on the night I just so happened to be visiting a hospital of all places, my passive magical control started slipping. Karma was a bitch, and whatever I'd done was coming back to haunt me.

I knew I couldn't enter a hospital if I was blowing out nearby electronics. So I cast an old spell I'd picked up a few years ago. I exited Murphy's car, picked up my staff, and murmured, " _Sileo, sto, silentium..._ "

I felt a flutter inside my stomach, and then... I suppose the best way to describe it would be a pulling sensation inside my navel. A shiver raced down my spine as I was suddenly cut off from the ambient magic of the world around me. To many wizards, magic is more than just a tool, but a living, breathing part of their souls. To cut it off from the outside world was like losing a limb, or a sense. In that moment, I felt blind, and shocked by the absence of sensation - a feeling much like jumping into a pool of still, ice-cold water.

The suppression spell would prevent me from shorting out electronics, but at the same time would require my active focus. I couldn't let my concentration waver; if I did, the spell would collapse, and the backlash would probably blow all of the lights in the building.

I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

I was pretty sure that hospital visiting hours were closed, but I needed to get inside, in a way that was quick as well as discrete. Being arrested was low on my list of priorities, and I couldn't afford the delay a prison stay would get me for trespassing in a hospital.

I'd eliminated the issue of my spastic magic, but that created more issues that I needed to address. I needed to enter the hospital without drawing attention to myself. Without magic, my go-to was alchemy... and unfortunately I wasn't prepared. My lab still wasn't operational, and even if it was, I would have needed preparation time, time I didn't want to spare. I crossed my arms over my chest and glared hard at the hospital entrance, wracking my brain for a solution, wishing that an easy route in would make itself known.

My wish was granted when an ambulance screamed into the parking lot.

I quickly threw my staff into the backseat, slammed the car door shut, and walked towards the reception bay. Shadows and vehicles alike offered great concealment for me, obscuring me from view, as did the incoming ambulance. With the ambulance's lights flaring, all eyes were drawn to it, leaving little chance of anyone noticing a wizard, dressed in black, shrouded by the darkness.

I neared the reception bay and crouched by the side of a blue Mercedes. As I watched, the ambulance rolled to a stop, and the rear doors were kicked open from the inside. A pair of medical techs lowered a gurney to the pavement. As its front wheels touched down, I got a good look at the person on the gurney.

Tonight's victim was a man dressed in camouflage with an arrow sticking out of his chest, with a curved arrowhead and black fletching. He must have been unconscious, because he didn't so much as flinch when the gurney slammed down onto concrete. I winced at the sight of the carnage, sparing a moment to pity the victim of an unfortunate hunting accident, but kept moving.

The techs were so focused on their patient that they didn't notice as I fell into step behind them. The emergency bay door opened for them, and I slipped inside, keeping in stride with the gurney. My ears were greeted by a wall of thunderous sound – people shouting and crying, hospital staff assessing injuries and issuing commands. Hospitals, especially the big ones, tend to be busy even after conventional business hours. It was something else I could use to my advantage.

I brought my hand to my face, gripping my nose, grimaced; given how terrible I looked, it wasn't tough to sell the idea that I had been brought to the hospital for treatment. I know I got a few odd looks – being close to seven feet tall and wearing a duster will attract attention – but none of them screamed suspicion. I kept my head down and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

As I did, I noticed an identification badge clipped onto the belt of the ambulance tech in front of me; as I walked furiously behind them, lost in the hustle and bustle of the reception area, I swiped the man's badge and tucked it into my pocket.

I passed through a set of double doors, which closed behind me, shutting out the riotous sound of the reception lobby. After I glanced around to make sure I hadn't been spotted, I ducked into a side hallway and spotted a well-placed hospital directory. I skimmed it, noting building entrances and exits, and looking for my target.

The coma ward was ten floors up on the opposite side of the building. My lips curled into a scowl. The room placement made sense: hospital staff would want emergency services close to the entrance, for quicker access, and less-used services would be farther from the main floor. Still, I couldn't help but glower. Ten floors and the length of the hospital was a lot of ground to cover, and if I was discovered, that might complicate things.

Creeping through buildings isn't my usual style. My preferred method, according to Murphy, is to remove any buildings that stand in my way. Still, I could be downright sneaky when it was needed. I couldn't cast any spells, wasn't armed, had no potions, had no contacts, and needed to find my way through the hospital without getting the boot.

So, I slowed down my breathing and Listened. It's a skill I've picked up on over the years. Some folks commonly mistake it for magic, but between you and me, it's just an act of mental focus. You devote your attention and your focus to one sense, and push it beyond normal limits. It was a skill that had served me well in the past, and I was banking on it to pull me through.

This time, I Listened for approaching hospital workers. The sound of footsteps tends to travel a long way in the long, narrow halls of a hospital. After a minute or so, the sound of footsteps disappeared and I stepped into the hallway. My duster flapped behind me as I walked briskly towards the stairwell on the opposite side of the building, readying the badge I'd swiped.

I ran the keycard through the electronic scanner next to the door. It lit up green, and with a metallic _clack_ , the magnetic locks released, and the double-doors swung open.

There was no telling who would need to use the stairwell, and there was no cover inside of it, so my risk of being discovered was somewhat high. I took the stairs three at a time, and ran up the ten flights of steps. Thankfully, my years of being a wheezy wizard were far behind me.

I made it to the tenth floor, only slightly winded, and swiped the key card again. Instead of the cheery green light, the scanner blinked red. The door remained shut.

A dead end.

I growled. If looks could kill, mine would have turned that entrance into swiss cheese. I felt the power of winter creeping up my spine, but shut it down fiercely with my will. I'd met plenty of obstacles in the past that had pissed me off, and whether or not I was emotionally stable, a measly door wasn't about to trigger the power of Winter.

I wasn't really mad at the door – no, I was mad at myself. I'd been impulsive, emotional, and I'd messed up. I'd grabbed the first card I'd seen, belonging to an ambulance tech, and had tried to enter the tenth floor of a high-security hospital. An ordinary ambulance tech wouldn't have access to that area. Worse still, I'd bet my hat that if someone tried to swipe their card at an area they didn't have access to, it would send a silent alarm to hospital security. That was usually how key-cards in places like this worked.

Because of my own stupidity, the clock had started ticking, and I still had a lot of ground to cover if I was going to reach my goals.

The doors were engaged with magnetic locks, and without a proper keycard, there was no way I was getting to the coma ward. I couldn't go back downstairs to try to find another – it would take too much time and the odds of getting caught were too great.

Subtlety wasn't an option anymore. If I wanted to make it to the coma ward before I was caught, I'd need to be a little more... direct.

I allowed my concentration on the suppression spel to waver just a fraction, pointed a finger at the electronic lock, and murmured, " _Disruptus_." The magic I'd bottled inside of me rushed out in a wave, striking the lock violently. The little LED display sparked and groaned, squealed like a broken record player, and suddenly the light turned green. The doors parted opened before me.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" I asked. In response, the card reader caught fire.

I walked quickly into the hallway, not pausing to Listen. I doubted the floor would be occupied that late at night; most of the hospital staff would have been in the reception bay, responding to incoming patients. More to the point, I didn't have any time to waste.

I passed a number of rooms, until I came to one with a backlit sign that said "Coma Ward" in black, blocky letters. It was sterile, pristine, with frosted glass and hardened edges. Something about it made me feel a little uneasy. I pushed open the door – no electronic lock this time, just a press bar – and made my way inside.

My mouth went dry.

Children filled up almost every bed. The youngest had to be maybe five years old. The oldest could have been twelve. Tiny bodies filling up tiny beds, stacked side-to-side. They had little IV tubes running into their arms. Their eyes were all closed, and if I didn't know better, I could have sworn they were just sleeping.

As I walked in between the rows of beds, taking in the details, I felt... detached. Cold. A wave of calm washed over me, like the eye of a storm. I stilled myself and slowed my breathing. My breath fogged the hospital air, which struck me as unusual – it couldn't have been cooler than sixty-five in the room.

I opened my Wizard's Sight to the world around me. And immediately, I regretted that decision.

I saw... husks. Empty husks. They looked more like butchered cattle, the kind that hang from hooks in meat packing plants, completely unrecognizable as children. Their ribs distended outward as though something had exploded from inside, or ate its way out. The edges of the wounds were blackened and shriveled, like they'd been cauterized by a branding iron, or... maybe tattooed. The room smelled like dank, decomposing flesh, mingled with an overpowering incense that made my stomach quail.

But that wasn't what scared me the most - no. What had been done to these children was _nightmarish,_ but that thought _paled_ in comparison to the ominous feeling that suddenly hung about me. As I watched with my sight, smoke began drifting from the mouths of the corpses, and coalesced into an ashen cloud. It _looked_ at me - and I glanced away, unable to meet its eyes. But I could _feel_ it as it approached, a fear rising in my chest, the kind you get when you're looking at something _wrong_ , something _unnatural_ , something that simply _shouldn't be_. I took a step back, and then another, as it advanced.

I heard a music box playing, discordant and off-key, its notes sweet and sour like rotting meat.

Then, the shadow opened its mouth... and spoke.

" _Do you... wish... upon a star?_ " It had the voice of a child, and the eyes of a monster.

It was... it was too much. I leaned over my knees and heaved, vomiting on the hospital floor.

I closed my mind's eye, but what I'd seen – what I'd felt – remained with me. It always would. That's what using the Wizard's Sight does to you: you see beneath the surface, beneath the physical side of things, and view them as they really are. I'd seen the empty shells of children, their souls brutally ripped from their bodies. I wasn't sure how it was done, and part of me didn't want to find out. More than that, I'd seen... I didn't know what it was, or who it was. And I didn't want to find that out either. Every nerve in my body was screaming in terror.

I realized I was curled up on the hospital floor, in a ball, my head tucked between my knees. I heard a voice, and realized that it was my own, mumbling incoherently. I opened my eyes, and noticed something else.

The overhead lights had blown out. In my emotional terror, I'd lost control of the suppression spell.

I heard gunshots. I wasn't sure where from, but they stirred me from my insanity and forced me into action. I braced myself against a hospital bed and pulled myself to my feet - only, instead of grabbing the bed frame, I'd grabbed the ankle of a comatose child. I looked at him, my eyes wild with fear and pain.

Visions of what I'd seen superimposed over reality. The child I'd touched - maybe five years old, dark hair, a birthmark on his neck - opened his eyes, and grinned. " _Mister Dresden,"_ he murmured, in a sing-song voice that seized me where I stood, " _Of all the evils in the world, don't you have a wish?_ "

I staggered back, gripping my head, and groaned. Pain was mounting behind my eyes, and I felt my sanity slipping. I had to... get away... from-

" _Mister Dresden_." I whirled, heart pounding, to face the speaker - but this time it was a hospital worker, dressed like a professor or a businessman. He was exceptionally thin with a pinched face, nearly as tall as I was, and had dark hair and a pale complexion. His eyes flickered to me in a way that reminded me of a cobra, cold and disinterested. His voice had some accent to it that I couldn't place – perhaps vaguely Japanese. I couldn't take in any more details... I was panicked, my heart pounding, head burning, my soul on _fire_ , I just needed it to _stop_ -

"Mister Dresden," he said, his voice cutting through the haze of pain that clouded my thoughts. "You should not be here. There is a hit squad en route. You are needed alive."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "A _h-hit squad_?" I stuttered, tremors racing down my spine as I fought to control my rampant emotions. I gritted my teeth and tried to clear my head.

"Yes. They will not be merciful," said the man. His voice was clipped and precise, like a machine's, totally devoid of emotion. After pausing for a moment, he turned to face the door, and held up his hands in a boxer's stance. "Unfortunately for them, neither will I."

I opened my mouth to speak, but my words were cut short as the door burst open.

Three men walked into the room. Hospital security, I thought, given the uniform jackets they wore, black with red crosses. Then I noticed the guns in their hands - heavy ordinance, fully automatic. How they'd gotten _those_ into the hospital was an interesting question, but I was far too addled to think clearly.

"Good," said one of the men, "you've found him. Good work, Kuzuki."

"Thank you. Now, to complete my contract."

I wasn't sure how much of what I saw was real, and how much was a hallucination created by my addled mind, but... one moment, there were four men, and the next, only one stood. In a flurry of punches and kicks that would give Murphy a run for her money, the man - Kuzuki - slew the three armed men in the span of a few seconds. His hands were like led weights, crushing bone and steel alike in their grip. His movements were quick and efficient, and he struck down each man with all the nonchalance of taking out the trash. Only one managed to let out a pained scream, and that was immediately silenced as Kuzuki crushed the man's windpipe with a callous flick of his hand.

The bodies fell, clattering to the floor in a heap of weeping limbs, warped steel, and crushed bones.

Kuzuki looked back at me, and said, "Behind you."

I turned away, and noticed that one of the windows had been opened. A climbing rope had been wrapped around the window's frame, and descended into the darkness. I glanced back at Kuzuki.

"Take it. Leave. There are more coming." He stood there calmly, arms at his sides, and faced the doorway expectantly.

I took it. I ran, panicked, towards the line. My fingers trembled as I grabbed ahold of the rope, and I rappelled down the ten-story building, my terror driving me to the ground as quickly as possible. At one point, I thought I saw a shadowy figure observing me from a dimly lit room, and nearly lost my grip on it entirely. But I made it safely down, and staggered over to Murphy's car.

I don't remember much of what happened after that. The rest of the night passed in a haze of fear, despair, and outright panic.

I don't remember the drive home. I remember turning on the radio and playing static, loud enough to drown out the voices of dead children singing in my head. The trip felt like it took ages, but I couldn't be sure, because the car's clock was still busted. Every shadow on the road home had a face, and every one of them was smiling wickedly.

I remember stumbling up Murphy's driveway, my limbs giving out beneath me, but continuing to press on. I remember noticing how cold the night was, as my knees shook, and the sweat on my brow froze.

She met me at the door. I remember her whispering something to me, something soothing. I remember her lips on my forehead. I had vague flashes of lucidity - she had wrapped me in blankets by the fire and held me as I cried. Her touch soothed me. She gave me something - a handful of pills - and soon I found myself in the warm embrace of sleep, beyond the reach of bullets, shadows, and the voices of dead children.


	8. Chapter 8

_I dreamed_.

I drifted endlessly in a haze of cool white. There were no voices. There was no pain. My only companion was my self. I felt nothing but a chilly breeze, a pleasant absence of sensation, a reprieve from the crushing weight of the aches that time had left upon my body.

 _Things_ flitted about the edges of my vision like fireflies. I couldn't see them, but I could feel them – like they were an extension of myself. They shifted restlessly, reaching for me, but I closed my eyes tightly and floated away. Away, from the grasping mist.

I opened my eyes, and saw a shadow. But that shadow had no face, no hungry eyes, no razor teeth. It didn't sing in the voice of a dying child. Instead, it... called to me, like a long-lost lover. I felt myself pulled towards it, floating gently through clouds of mist, immaterial, weak, and frail.

Its outline became more distinct as I approached. And as it became closer, strength returned to my limbs. My feet found purchase on icy, cracked ground. I took step after step, the cold mounting, growing, resisting me like some savage beast, backed into a corner. I didn't know why I kept moving forward, only that it to move was as natural as breathing; I couldn't stop the beating of my feet any more than I could stop the beating of my heart.

My limbs grew heavy, but I kept moving, closer to the silhouette, obscured by the grasping mists. I was within an arm's reach of the ████, when I finally looked upon it, in all of its glory.

It was a ██████ – the ███ I'd ████ before, but from when and where I couldn't remember. It was made of s████, cloaked in g██, bl██ and ████, a ██ft and a c█rse, and was a m████estation of █████████, my █████s given f███. I reached out and touched the ████ with ██ ████ █████.

My fingertips erupted in ████, the l███t piercing through cloud of mist, dispersing it like the remnants of a bad d███m. The b███ing consumed me, and all that I was. At first there was pain - a hot, cleansing pain - and then... peace.

* * *

I awoke in a haze of fatigue. My eyes couldn't focus, so I just lay there in the darkness, my limbs heavy and numb. I licked my lips, which were dry and chapped, and focused on my breathing.

As I awakened, sensation returned, bit by bit.

I could see the beginnings of a Chicago sunrise through Murphy's curtains. It was a sight I was somewhat familiar with, one that reminded me of home and hearth. A halo of blue-white light pierced through the cracks in the red velvet. I stared at them for a while, and nearly drifted off to sleep again.

I wasn't sure what was going on. Time escaped me, dripping through the grasping fingers of my mind like sand. I felt listless, worn, like a ragdoll that had been put through the wash one too many times.

I shifted, and as the covers glided against my scarred skin, I realized that I was nude, save for my mother's amulet. I wasn't sure why I wasn't wearing clothing. The last I remembered was... Murphy. The pills. She must doped me up and gotten me into bed before I passed out. It was no wonder my memory was fuzzy – I was still feeling their effects. If the sun was just now rising, I couldn't have been out for – what, six hours?

I also realized something else: I was holding my backpack tightly between my arms - I was practically curled around the thing. I wasn't sure why I was holding it, the canvas tickling my chest hairs, but I couldn't bring myself to care. It was a pleasant weight, something real that I could focus on and tether myself to, to keep from falling back asleep.

Something shifted behind me, something that was warm and soft and pressing up against my back. There was a quiet sigh, and I felt a pair of lips pressing against my shoulder. An arm imposed itself between the backpack and my stomach, and gripped me tightly, like a long-lost teddy bear.

I was content, as I lay there for a little while. I knew that I needed to get up and get to work, but I wasn't fully awake yet. So long as the pills were working their magic, I wasn't able to work mine. My thoughts were muddled, but they didn't protest too much – my desire to spend a moment like this with Murphy was entirely selfish, but it had enough logic backing it that I didn't fight my desires too much.

Maybe it was a habit of mine developed from years sleeping in a Chicago sub-basement apartment, but I loved sleeping in the cold. The feeling of cool air on my skin was a pleasant sensation, like touching silk.

Minutes passed, and I felt my mental faculties returning. I freed myself from Murphy's grip – no easy feat, mind you – and eased out of the bed, my bare feet hitting the carpeted floor. I sat up and felt light-headed for a moment, but otherwise no worse for wear.

As much as I loved the cold when I was asleep, I hated it when I was awake. Murphy's ancestral home was old, and with winter setting in, the temperature dropped something fierce. It was something we planned on fixing, but hadn't gotten around to. I felt my toes going number, and I started to shiver as soon as the blankets fell away.

I stiffly opened up the nightstand drawer – my drawer – and pulled out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt. I tugged the shirt and pants on with a little effort, and then stood, stretching my back with a series of quiet pops.

I spotted my duster on a hangar above the doorway, and a pair of fluffy blue slippers on the floor beside it. The slippers were a little small, probably a spare pair of Murphy's, but I didn't particularly care. After throwing the duster about my shoulders, I grabbed them, too, and slipped them on to complete my wizardly ensemble.

I trudged through the house, stopping briefly by the kitchen to grab some orange juice, and a quick meal of reheated chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Charity. Murphy couldn't cook to save her life, and to be honest, neither could I. Charity had been teaching me, but I was nowhere near as skilled a cook as she was. Occasionally, she'd send leftovers home with me. It was her way of telling me that I was doing the right thing by Maggie, and a token gesture to Murphy, who spent far more time cooped up inside than she really should.

I finished the quick meal and felt a little strength, a little surety, return to my limbs.

And then... I planned.

I took a quick glance at the grandfather clock in Murphy's hallway. Thankfully, I hadn't slept in too late. My scheduled meeting with Fix and Sarisa wasn't for another two hours, plenty of time to do a little reconnaissance.

I revisited what I'd learned the night before. Thankfully, after a good night's sleep, my mind had settled somewhat. I was marginally surprised, actually, that I was in such good shape. I could see the images I'd witnessed last night, replaying them perfectly in my head, without any emotional baggage. I wasn't sure what pills Murphy'd given me, but I was damned sure they had to cost a fortune.

I was fairly sure I knew what had happened to the kids, but that raised more questions. I needed outside help, and I knew exactly where to get it.

I descended the steps into Murphy's basement, following the short hallway, and entered my lab, closing the door behind me. It was colder down there than in the rest of the house, but thankfully, my feet were protected, as long as I stood on my tiptoes.

Bob's eyes flickered open, and he gave me a once-over. "Stars and stones, Harry... What in the blazes _happened_ to you?" He sounded... terrified. Apparently, this emotional state was becoming his norm. I blinked, my swollen eyes fixing the skull on the shelf with a disinterested look.

"I was punch drunk in love with a motorcycle and decided to kiss the dashboard. Sanya assures me I have good taste," I deadpanned. I grabbed some chalk off of the table, and began drawing a summoning circle on the concrete floor.

"Not that," he replied distractedly, "I'm talking about your _soul_. I haven't seen you in worse shape since Lasciel. What did you do, soulgaze a _god_?"

I pressed a little too hard against the concrete, and the chalk stick I'd been using snapped in half. I paused for a moment, and then resumed drawing the circle.

I placed a number of candles around the circle – five, one for each point of a pentagram that I drew within its center. My hand dashed across the concrete in a familiar way, drawing up the additional runes needed for a targeted summoning.

When it comes to ritual summoning, the basics are all the same. You need a circle, a few standard spell components to determine the nature of the summon, and a sacrifice of knowledge, something that would identify the specific thing you are trying to bring into the material world. In this case, my goal was to summon _Ulsharavas_ , a spirit of knowledge that I had contacted in the past. She was a benevolent spirit, one of the _loa_ , who generally offered her secrets at a reasonable rate, and had been very reliable in the past.

For this particular ritual, I'd chosen to line the circle with scented white candles, symbolizing purity of the mind and spirit. I placed five candles, each at appropriate points outside of the circle, equidistant from one another. Each of the candles rested at a point on the pentagram, just inside the confines of the circle.

" _Flickum Bickus_ ," I murmured, and with a small effort of will, all of the candles flickered to life. Little shadows played across the floor, and the room was illuminated in a dull orange glow.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully, and glanced over the ritual book in my hand. It was a small thing, pocket-sized, and as old as it was tiny. The brown leather binding had been worn down from centuries of neglect. I couldn't even make out the title anymore.

"I went to check out the kids, Bob. The comatose ones that ended up being rescued," I began, as I gathered a handful of ingredients from the stack of boxes in the corner of a room. I gingerly placed a little Prince Albert in a Can and a shot of Tennessee Honey inside the circle.

"I opened the Sight and took a peek," I sighed, and put my hands on my hips. "They were... mangled, Bob. Gone. Empty husks. And... I think they were cursed, by something big. Whatever it was left little remnants behind. It attacked me, too."

Bob remained silent for a long moment. "Harry... your soul looks like it's had a huge chunk bitten out of it. That was from _looking_ at the _remnants_ of a _curse._ I don't know how you're functioning... if anything, you should be in the same state. Heaven forbid you actually meet the _caster._ And you're still planning on crusading recklessly ahead, knowing that this thing, whatever it is, is entirely out of your league?"

I blinked, and glanced up at the skull. "It's taking _kids_ , Bob. They're off a lot worse than me. I can't just let him slide. After what I saw last night... I can't stop now." My mouth settled into a hard line.

I set a lion plushie in the center of the circle. It was a toy I'd bought for Maggie. She'd come over to visit me the other day, and had accidentally left it in the foyer. I figured she wouldn't mind if her daddy used it for his work. Ulsharavaswas an astralized spirit, and needed a body while she was in the mortal world in order to communicate. I was tragically in short supply of freshly-dead corpses, so I chose a more... convenient, and morally superior, route.

"Harry," Bob pleaded, his voice soft, his eye-lights flickering erratically. "Do you realize how insane you sound? I'm surprised you're even functioning. You were nearly torn to pieces. That kind of damage-"

"But I _wasn't_ ," I replied sharply, angrily slamming the ritual book I'd been reading down on the table beside me. I fixed Bob with a steely glare, the corners of my lips curling in distaste. "And those kids need help. If you're not going to sit on _my_ bench, feel free to sit this one out."

At my sudden outburst, the skull turned, as though it had been slapped. We didn't speak, not for a long time.

"...Harry... You're a friend. Just... please. Be careful," he murmured. I didn't answer him. I knew it was childish, but a part of me wanted him to hurt. Didn't he know how much I needed his support? There was a battle to be fought, and I couldn't have the people closest to me backing down when there was so much work to do.

More to the point, I couldn't stop to think about my actions, because if I did, there was a chance I'd step away.

The lost kids couldn't afford that.

I took a steadying breath, and entered the circle. With an effort of will, and the mental sensation of a bear trap snapping shut above my head, I closed the circle. I extended my right hand – the point from which magic magic exits the human body – and felt the energy build around me, confined by chalk design on the concrete floor. My control wasn't much steadier than it had been the night before, but thaumaturgy didn't require much finesse. That was what the reagents were for.

I felt the magic build to a peak, and began chanting.

" _Ulsharavas_... One who is blind seeks your guidance. _Ulsharavas_... Please, come forth. Accept his offerings, and bless him with your presence. _Ulsharavas_..."

With each utterance of the spirit's name, the magic swelled around me, like a rising tide. That's how summoning magic works: prepare a circle and your offerings, and then offer up the spirit's name as a sacrifice of knowledge. Each use of the name acts like a beacon. Say a spirit's true name once, and they might notice you. Say it twice, and you've got their attention. Say it three times, and you're standing in front of them, shouting into a megaphone. The magic you put into the spell will connect with the spirit, and will be used to draw them from the distant reaches of the Nevernever and into the mortal world.

The magic rushed out of me in a wave. A moment passed, then two – and suddenly, I felt a presence in the room. The lion doll sat back on its haunches, and looked up at me.

" _Ah. Wizard. It has been a long time_ ," the spirit greeted. Her voice vaguely reminded me of one of those ancient gypsy ladies from old western films – wrinkled skin, terribly makeup, and incredibly cryptic. The lion's stubby paws wrapped around the shot glass, and hefted it to its mouth. The whiskey disappeared as it touched the doll's lips, vanishing into thin air.

"That it has. Unfortunately, I don't really have time for pleasantries. Something big is going on, and I need your help." I tucked my hands into my duster pockets.

" _Of both, I am aware_ ," Ulsharavas replied. The doll slowly reached for the open tin, and grabbed a pinch of tobacco, threw threw it into her mouth. The doll's lips opened and closed, pantomiming chewing. I didn't say anything at first, content to let her speak – but time passed, and I grew a little more irritated with each passing second.

After a minute, the lion sighed contentedly, and reached for more.

"...And? Are you going to help me or not?" I asked, my tone coming out clipped and harsh. _Ulsharavas_ looked up at me, and reached into the can for more.

" _Patience_ ," the spirit commanded, in that same voice, her mouth full of honeyed tobacco. I glared down at the lion doll and bit back a curse.

"If you know what I'm up against, you know I don't have _time_ ," I said. A little heat entered my voice, though I tried to hold it back.

The spirit didn't look phased. If anything, she probably expected my response. The little lion shrugged its shoulders. " _Time is an illusion, wizard, and it blinds those who fail to see through it._ "

I clenched my fists at my sides, and tried very, _very_ hard not to lose my cool. "There are a lot of things I can't see, which is why I've called you. Now, _please_ , help me."

" _...Fine. Your youth begets you, wizard. An elder would never be so impatient._ " The lion quirked its lips, in a stuffed-animal approximation of a scowl. She pushed the half-filled can of tobacco away, and bowed her head.

" _Be aware, Wizard, that there is only so much I can do._ " The spirit sighed. " _This situation is... delicate. Forces are at play here that are beyond even my sight, and interference in these events may risk my own well-being, something I am very fond of. But, I sense that if I do not aid you, much more than my life may be lost_."

The doll chuckled. It was an eerie, raspy sound, one that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. " _Once again, Wizard, you are at the heart of another war, whose scope you do not yet realize._ "

I stared at her for a few moments, trying to process everything she'd said, my anger evaporating as quickly as it had come.  
 _  
"Go ahead and ask your questions, Wizard. As I understand, you are pressed for time._ " The doll sat down on its haunches, its tail swaying lazily back and forth.

"The Fomor," I began, folding my arms across my chest. "They're a wild card, and a huge piece of the puzzle. Why are they kidnapping kids?"

The Fomor were long-forgotten spirits and lesser gods of the sea, monsters of the oldest caliber. They had emerged to fill the power vacuum I'd left, shortly after I'd toasted the Red Court down to its last man. If you've ever seen _Lord of the Rings_ , think Gollum – only five times bigger, with red eyes, sharp teeth, and an appetite for revenge rivaling a Ghoul's hunger for human flesh.

" _Why do the Fomor do anything?_ " The spirit parroted. The lion plushie stalked back and forth within the circle, as though prowling through its hunting grounds. " _They are an... unusual lot. Though traditionally they operate independently of one another, they have unified behind a single banner_."

"I figured as much. They're far too organized." I scratched thoughtfully at the stubble on my chin. "Who's pulling the strings, and what are they after?"

" _I cannot say. It is... beyond my knowing_." The lion's muzzle wrinkled in distaste.

"What do you mean? You're an oracle spirit, for crying out loud." I clenched my fists again, although this time my anger wasn't directed at her. I'd done the field work, and couldn't afford a dead end – the thought of another one had me ready to blow a gasket.

" _Don't test me,_ boy," the doll snapped. It reared back and bared its teeth, a motion which would have been a little more imposing if it weren't so damned tiny. " _I will not tolerate disrespect, no matter how well-intentioned._ "

"...Fine," I spat, "Why don't you know?"

" _They are shielded from me. Certain powers can shield things from sight, even to the eyes of an oracle spirit, like myself_." The lion plushie looked... almost ashamed. For an oracle spirit like Ulsharavas, who prided herself on teaching others, being unable to fulfill her purpose must have felt terrible. The plushie bowed its head.

" _What I can tell you,_ " she continued, " _is that the one who has orchestrated the actions of the Fomor is not of their breed. While the Fomor seek independent strength, they are not adverse to working in the service of others in exchange for information, power, and influence. In this instance, it stands to reason that they are merely tools to a greater power._ "

I considered that for a moment, coming to a few conclusions, and chose to switch to a different avenue of questioning.

"The children. What happened to them? Can they... can they be saved?"

The question I'd asked was one I could barely stand. Asking it implied doubt – doubt in my own abilities, doubt in the likelihood anyone could survive after being exposed to the terrible curse I'd witnessed the night before. It showed doubt on the promise that I'd made to Murphy the night before, and God knew I'd broken enough promises in the recent past. But I needed to know – needed to have a little insight, so that I could be in a better position to do something.

" _Their souls were siphoned from their bodies,_ " Ulsharavas replied. I grimaced. Normally, she was known for being... vague, but in this case, her words were blunt, and they struck like a hammer to the gut.

" _I know not how, or for what purpose, but this I can tell you: their souls are very much intact. What state they are in, I cannot say. And, like the identity of the Fomor's leader, their location is shielded from my gaze._ " **  
**  
I clenched my fists by my sides, and this time, I couldn't contain the fury. Winter's cold crept along my skin, and the despair and frustration I felt spilled out of me like hot lava. I slammed my fist into and through the wooden table in my lab, sending splinters and half-stacked alchemy ingredients tumbling to the floor. Bob, a silent observer until that point, let out a little 'eep'.

"Damn it all to _hell,"_ I all but shouted. I knew I was being childish, taking out my anger on the innocent table, but... dammit.

I'd grown complacent. I'd grown happy. For the first time in so many years, I'd finally found my slice of life. I'd reconnected with my friends, with my daughter, and with Murph. And now, now that I'd finally gotten a taste for peace, I found myself buried in a mountain of _shit_. The peace I dreamed of seemed farther and farther away by the minute. The torch I had burning for those kids – every one of their faces looking like Maggie's – was dimming.

" _Now, Wizard, for the matter of my payment,_ " Ulsharavas said, her tone nonplussed. " _I ask of you a gift of knowledge in return. It seems you have found yourself at an impasse. You are now confronted with a situation which appears hopeless. Do you remember what I asked of you, all of those years ago?"_

"Yeah," I glowered, distracted by the growing pain in my hand. I clenched my fist by my side and flexed it, trying to work out the pain. It was going to bruise, I knew, but that couldn't be helped.

" _I would ask the same question again. Why do you do what you do? Why do you embark on a crusade against the dark, condemning yourself to a lifelong struggle, denying yourself the basic pleasures of peace?_ "

I blinked, turned to face the oracle spirit, and answered. I didn't need to think about my response at all – it was everything I'd lived and breathed, everything that had defined me and my actions from the first moment I'd held my daughter. "To make the world a better place for others. For Maggie."

"A _nd what if you fail_?" Ulsharavas asked, her beady little eyes appraising me.

"...I won't. I've come a long ways since I first started. Now, I'm stronger than ever. And you can bet that I'm not going to lose this fight," I said coldly.

Ulsharavas merely sighed. " _...It seems that even now, after so many years, you haven't found your answer. Heed my warning, wizard: your ideal begets only suffering, and may very well be your demise._ "

On that pleasant note, the doll went limp – like a puppet with its strings cut, and I heard a distant howling wind. The papers I'd knocked to the floor suddenly fluttered in a supernatural breeze, and swirled around my feet. I opened my mouth to speak, but was a moment too late.

With a sound like tearing paper, the spirit of Ulsharavas vanished, and my lab was filled with silence. The papers fluttered quietly to the floor.

Bob gave me a knowing look. An uncomfortable weight settled in my gut, and I slouched my shoulders, feeling every one of my thirty-five years creeping up on me.

"Let me get this straight, Harry. When your decades-old friend – who is a spirit of intellect, by the way – tells you that you might be off your rocker, you ignore him. But when a _stuffed lion_ says otherwise, _now_ you start getting all introspective? _Wow_ , Harry. I never took you for a pansy."

"Shut up," I growled. I tried to save face by shoving my hands back into my duster pockets, but I probably looked as childish as I felt. I stormed out of the lab, and didn't look back.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Thank You]:** Thanks once again for reading and reviewing the story!

 **[Notice]: Things are about to get real!** Harry is about to find himself in the middle of a war he isn't prepared for. For those of you who are wondering, several interesting characters are going to make their debut in the next two or three chapters, and the story's going to get a lot more action-packed. Fight scenes, drama, revelations and spooky ghosts incoming!


	9. Chapter 9

I ducked my head as I entered the pub, little silver bells tittering like schoolchildren as I passed through the doorway. A cold breeze caused my duster to flare about my ankles. I planted my staff on the floor and glanced about the smoky room.

A cascade of silence, and dozens of staring eyes, greeted me.

I was known here. I'd frequented Mac's pub for years, even before I'd met the Carpenters. The pub was famous for its home-brewed ale, and for having a mean steak sandwich. It had always been a watering hole for Chicago's supernatural community, but things had changed. More recently, it had been designated as Accorded Neutral Territory, a place for the magical folk to meet in peace, enforced by the Unseelie Accords and the White Council. Mac's pub had been something of a home-away-from-home, and I'd enjoyed more of those steak sandwiches than Rosie O'Donnel's cardiologist would know how to deal with.

Despite the years I'd spent frequenting the pub, despite the fact that I was a regular, those weren't welcoming looks – they were frightened ones, like deer in the headlights.

I suppose you could say I had a reputation among the supernatural folk. Killing one of the Faerie Queens, wiping out the entire Red Court, and returning from beyond the grave will do that. Add in the Winter Mantle – and Mab's gossip - along with my habit of disturbing the peace, and... well.

Put it this way: if the Winter Court was the Empire, I was the Death Star, armed and ready to laser-beam anyone and anything that got in my way.

Or, at least, that was what the rumor mill held to be true.

So it was no surprise that people these days recognized me on sight. As soon as I stepped forward, clearing first row of tables, a number of other patrons quietly picked up their things and left, taking great care to avoid crossing my path.

It hurt, a little more than I'd care admit, but I didn't let that show.

Now was a time for strength – and intimidation was just as valid a weapon as any other. I took their fear, their uncertainty, and used it to my advantage. I kept my scowl firmly in place, and clenched my staff tightly in my grip. The tip glowed a dull red, pulsing along with my heartbeat. Mac, the barkeep, threw a warning glance in my direction – but I ignored his gaze, and instead drilled a hole in the corner table, and its two occupants, with my own.

I stalked through the pub, passing through the rings of wooden columns that were placed to disrupt the ambient magical energy of patrons. My backpack, and the scabbard within, was a comforting weight on my shoulders. My teeth shone white in the dim lighting.

With a conscious effort, I drew all of the emotions that I'd buried from the night before and brought them to the surface. A portion of the rage I'd felt, of the pain and despair that had swallowed me, bubbled to the surface of my mind. I felt the icy tendrils of Winter creeping up my spine, and allowed them to – they would help make what I was about to do easier, more convincing. I allowed a portion of my pent-up magic to spill over into my surroundings. Somewhere nearby, a lazily-spinning ceiling fan sparked and went out.

As I approached the table, my mark tensed. Fix was a lithe man, deceptively so, with shoulder-length snow-white hair and bronzed skin. He was dressed in a brown leather jacket overlaying a green silk shirt and blue jeans, with tanned leather work boots insulating his feet. As a Knight of Summer, he was my counterpart in every sense, the power of the Summer Mantle hovering about him, one that seemed to make the pub's dim lighting seem a little brighter, a little warmer.

A silver sword lay at his left hip, and despite himself, his fingers grasped at its hilt nervously. I felt Winter's might surge through me, an icy chill creeping up my spine, in response. _Coward,_ it said, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like mine. _What a coward._

Seated calmly at the table beside him was Sarissa, the newly-appointed Summer Lady. She wore a brown, pinstripe suit with an orange blouse, amber jewelry flashing at her ears and throat. Her hair, black as pitch, was tied into a simple braid that hung between her shoulder blades. Her icy eyes flickered up to me as I approached.

"An expression like that might convince me that you mean to harm myself and my Knight. Such a threat would have to be contested." murmured Sarissa, her gaze cool and collected. Despite being the Summer Lady, she was originally born of the Winter Court, and she had a poker face that took after her mother's.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've had to kill a Sidhe Queen." I could _taste_ the venom on my tongue. There are many kinds of battle, as I'd come to learn over the years, and my words started one.

Fix abruptly stood, knocking his chair back, his lips drawn into a hard line. A couple of years ago, he'd have ignored the bait. But the death of the former Summer Lady, Lily, had shaken him, weakened his resolve. She was more than just his Queen - judging from the way the grief had hit him, she'd been much more. My words were like daggers, and all of them were running red.

I saw a drop of sweat work its way down Fix's brow, and his fingers twitched anxiously at the pommel of his sword.

"Don't talk to Sarissa like that, Dresden. You _will_ treat her with respect." Fix said, a slight tremor in his voice. His tone was sharp – not with sadness, but with rage, barely suppressed.

I almost pitied him. He was no kid anymore, but he certainly looked like one at that moment. He'd been through hell, and for all of our history, he was something of a friend – but I knew that what I was doing was necessary. He raised a hand, as if to halt me in my tracks, and I batted it aside angrily. I shoved aside the pity and the empathy, and made the hard choice.

"Like _hell_ I will! I'll talk to this bitch as I damned well please!" I all but shouted, slamming my free hand down on the table. Fix flinched, his hand clenching tightly on the hilt of his sword, but didn't draw his blade. My eyes gleamed in the red light of my staff.

Sarissa pursed her lips, her eyes flickering to my staff, which hovered not three feet from her face, its tip pulsing the color of magma. I felt her gathering power, a gentle heat and light that slowly budded into a scorching inferno. It was a Mexican standoff in the making, and everything hinged on Fix.

" _Dresden_ ," murmured Fix, his lips curled back into a snarl, "The Mantle of Winter, it's messing with your head. We're in Accorded Neutral Territory, and -"

"People are dying left and right," I interrupted, my voice glowing hotter than the staff in my grip, "So you'd better start talking or there are going to be two more names to add to the Tribune's _obituary_ column."

"Dresden, she's the Queen. You -"

" _Shut your_ _mouth_ ," I snarled, shoving my way into his personal space, glaring down at him. "You don't have any moral ground to stand on, not with hit men on your payroll. How does it feel? Knowing your new boss targets _kids_?"

I crossed a line, and it showed. Faster than I could blink, Fix had his hand at my neck, his fingers tightening around my windpipe. I choked back a cough, but didn't move a muscle - I wasn't finished.

"Fix," whispered Sarissa. Her tone was pleading, soft... and unheard. I had Fix right where I wanted him, tunnel vision and seething fury buried beneath that fine-china exterior.

It was time for the finishing blow.

"Knowing she's only here because you _failed_. Because you let _Lily_ -"

My breath left me in a huff. My feet left the ground, and my shoulders struck the table with enough force to break through it. Splinters and sawdust exploded around me, accompanied by a throbbing pain in my back. I took a moment to blink away the stars, and saw Fix, panting hard, his sword drawn. He glared down at me over the length of shining silver. My staff had been knocked across the floor, before rolling to a stop at the base of an empty barstool.

" _Don't. Say. Her. Name,"_ snarled the changeling knight.

I heard the sound of shuffling fabric, and turned my head expectantly. Mac emerged from behind the counter, a stain on his usually-pristine apron. He held a Remington in the crook of his arm. It was the kind of shotgun that only had a five-round capacity, because most targets would be dead, all but pasted by the first shot.

In the lifetime I'd been a patron, I'd never seen Mac mad. He was the sort who kept his emotions closely guarded. He rarely spoke more than two syllables at a time, and while he was the friendly, professional sort, he kept everyone at arm's length. Strong-willed, silent, benevolent and watchful – these were the words that best described Mac.

He racked the shotgun with one hand, his heavy brow furrowed, and his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a scowl.

Normally, he was content to sit back and watch his patrons go about their business. He didn't leave the bar much, not even to deliver food to his patrons – because, according to him, "If they want it, they'll come get it."

Tonight was different. He'd seen a fight break out, in his pub, for the first time in... I honestly don't know how long. There was a fury in his eyes that gave even me pause.

" _You've violated the Accords_ ," he intoned, his voice short and hard. He trained the barrel's tip on Fix.

Realization dawned in Fix eyes. His hand began shaking, and he lowered his sword, until it hung limply at his side. Sarissa looked like she'd swallowed a lemon, and her knuckles went white on the lip of the table.

" _I see_ ," the Summer Lady murmured, locks of raven hair shadowing her eyes as her glare bored holes into the back of my head. She'd connected the dots, of course.

In a wizardly fashion, I steadfastly ignored her.

"No harm, no foul, Mac," I said, standing. I brushed a handful of wooden splinters off of my duster. Mac didn't respond – so I sighed, and, stepping closer to him, pushed the barrel down of his shotgun down with the palm of my hand. "We had a... misunderstanding. Just let us talk it out."

"...Rules," he replied, scowling. He gestured at the trembling Knight with the barrel. "Complaint?"

"...Not yet. I'd prefer to resolve this without involving the Council," I hung my head tiredly. "I've got enough on my plate as it is right now. The last thing I need is more paperwork."

Mac eyed me for a moment, and then relaxed, the Remington settling back into the crook of his arm.

"...Fine. One chance."

As he turned his back and walked back to the counter, Sarissa spoke up. "Clever play, Dresden."

The raven-haired beauty huffed, in a way that reminded me very much of Maeve.

"Maybe... I should talk to Mab about this. Perhaps I'll let her know that her knight is running loose, attacking agents of Summer on sacred ground." She brought a finger to her lips, looking very much like a parent that had caught their child reaching into the cookie jar, and sighed like one too.

"I never laid a hand on him. Mac will back me up," I replied, raising an eyebrow. "As for the incitement, as you put it, I was just giving him a little... _constructive criticism_. Hard advice."

I glanced at Fix, who was shaking like a leaf in the wind, equal parts fury and fear. "If you went to Mab with that, she'd laugh you off, criticize your knight's lack of self-control, and give me a medal for one-upping the _daughter that left_."

Sarissa's lips twitched into a scowl. She knew she was backed into a corner. From the moment Fix had laid his hands on me, the game had changed, the deck became stacked in my favor. I held the cards, as well as the pot, and she knew it.

"You know more than I do about what's going on in Chicago. Start talking," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. She chewed her lip, the first sign I'd seen of her losing her composure.

"And if I refuse?" She asked, although there was a look of resignation in her eyes. We both knew that our wordplay was little more than formality at this point.

"Accords," I said shortly. "You've been Lady for, what, two years now? That's a heartbeat to most of the Sidhe. A political embarrassment like, say, violating the accords and directly attacking the Winter Knight in Accorded Neutral Territory... that would undermine your reign. And with Winter just around the bend, your power is weakening by the day, right?"

"How do you know I won't just offer up Fix as a sacrificial lamb?" She asked, waving a hand dismissively. "A knight is easily replaced."

"Because I know you. And I know Fix. You won't find a better knight, and we both know how well he's liked by the court. He's your teacher, your mentor, your symbol of authority, your right arm. Sacrificing him would hurt your reputation, and your power base, even more."

Sarissa sighed heavily, closing her eyes. She swayed for a moment, and then slowly lowered herself back into her seat. She looked shaken, pale, but I knew better. The Sidhe, as human as they looked, were anything but.

"...What is it you want?" She asked, her voice hollow, her eyes downcast. I felt satisfaction, primal and angry, welling in my chest - a satisfaction that had nothing to do with the Winter Mantle.

"Tell me," I murmured, "what your involvement is with the Fomor."

My theory was simple. The Fomor started kidnapping children shortly after the title of Summer Lady passed from Lily to Sarissa. Coincidence? Possibly. But that wouldn't have been the first time the Sidhe Courts stole children away from the mortal world. It's well documented in traditional folklore, from Norse to European – stories of children being swiped from their beds, or stolen away into the forest, by creatures of the wild – that Sidhe, usually fringe members of the courts, loved kidnapping children.

Assuming that the Summer Court was behind the kidnappings, it also made sense that they'd want to off me. Chicago was a hub for the supernatural community, with more Ways between the material world and the Nevernever than practically anywhere else on the planet. It also had a high population, with plenty of vangrant children – runaways, gang members, and homeless – perfect targets.

I was Chicago's self-anointed protector, and would, naturally, defend the city against whatever threat faced it. It was inevitable that the police would come to me when they were presented with a case this massive. My guess was that the Court had been preparing to off me, and once they'd found out that Stallings was making his move, they'd wanted to remove me from the game before I knew I was playing. Call me paranoid – but if I were an assassin, it's what I'd have done.

Summer Court involvement would also explain the inhuman agility the hit squad members had shown, as well as how they opened a portal to the Nevernever. The Sidhe were known for their inhuman beauty and physical prowess, as well as their ability to use magic. Any Sidhe worth their pixie dust could travel between the physical world and the Nevernever at the drop of a hat, quicker than you could say "There's no place like home."

And, for the icing on the cake: the souls of the children couldn't be seen by using conventional magic. Ulsharavas had mentioned that certain locations existed that were protected from scrying. I wagered, logically, that the Sidhe would know of and have access to such a place - after all, secrets were their lifeblood. That would explain why the children weren't being found in the physical world – why, despite the hundreds of hours that Chicago PD had put into the search, so few kids had been recovered.

My theory had merit – but there were still so many unanswered questions, so many factors that I wasn't aware of... which was why I'd come in, guns metaphorically blazing. I wasn't going to start an all-out war against the Summer Court unless I was certain they'd had a hand in recent events.

I was convinced that she had a hand in the children going missing, and – given that I still didn't know _why_ she was doing what she was doing – I was convinced her answer would surprise me. I was right, on one count.

"I don't have any."

There was a tense pause after her words. I stared at her, hard, and then glanced between her and Fix, brow furrowed.

"You didn't what any... what? Fomor on payroll?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She brushed an errant silken hair out of her eyes and glowered.

"Since becoming the Summer Lady, I haven't kidnapped, taken, or coerced children, directly or by proxy. Me and mine do not have any business dealings with the Fomor involving the City of Chicago or any of its denizens."

I blinked, and rocked back into my chair.

Sidhe are an interesting lot. Despite how they appear – two arms, two legs, and beautiful to the point of inhuman perfection – they are anything but human. Conniving, spiteful, plotting – these adjectives three fit them to a tee. Ask them a question, and they may agree to answer – but what they say is never straightforward. Half the time, it's as much a challenge getting them to speak as it is knowing what questions to ask.

I wracked my brain, looking for an angle, an easy out she could be used to play me.

"What do you mean by 'denizens'?" Sarissa stared at me like I was some sort of brain-dead monkey. As the seconds passed, I began to feel like one, with increasing zeal.

I tried to work a different angle.

"Did you, or anyone you know within your court, contract a hit squad to attack my home last night? Four men, one with a big honking rifle?"

"No one that I would know of."

"...Say that three times," I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my duster. It was well-known that if a faerie swore three times to something, it was the truth – or as close to the truth as the Sidhe were capable of admitting.

Her fists shook angrily by her sides. " _Harry Dresden_ , I don't care what affiliation you have. I am the Summer Lady, and I will not stand for this betrayal, this humiliation."

"Why are you being so straightforward?" I glowered. I was floundering, and I knew it, but I kept talking. My mouth moved seemingly of its own accord. "It's... it's not right. You're one of the Sidhe. Honesty isn't in your nature. Perhaps Maeve wasn't the only one tainted by Nemesis." I glanced quickly between Sarissa and Fix, and immediately knew I'd said the wrong thing.

Something broke between us. Sarissa reared back as though struck, inhaled sharply, and then slammed her hands on the table, thrusting herself to her feet.

"How's _this_ for honesty?" She snarled, jabbing a delicate finger into my chest. I winced at her touch. "I thought we were _friends_ , you... you asshole. We have a _history_. I didn't choose my station – _it chose me, as you are well aware._ After what you and I have been through, all you had to do to receive my aid was to _ask,_ and I probably would have helped you. Perhaps an arrangement could have been made. But now..."

She was a good foot shorter than me in heels, but in that moment, she towered over me. I swallowed thickly, and felt my stomach drop. Fix, having stood mutely by her side, tensed.

" _Now,_ Dresden, you have insulted me. I have not – and _would_ not – barter favors with the likes of the Fomor. I have not, and would not, order the deaths of children. I certainly would not attack an ally in cold blood. And, I assure you, my will is my own. It's wonderful to know that the man who I saved has repaid my kindness by likening me to the _enemy of all existence._ " I flinched, unable to meet her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but she was far from done, silencing me with a chilling look.

"I will tell you nothing more. Have your truth, and choke on it. Don't ask me for any favors, for I will give you none." Sarissa stepped away from the table, and folded her arms across her chest. A scowl marred her beautiful features, contrasting sharply with the gentle, warm aura she radiated throughout the room. She made to walk past me and leave the bar, but paused some feet away, her eyes flickering back to mine.

"Knowing the weakness of your friend but doubting his loyalty to you, you incited his anger, forcing him into a position which would give you leverage over me. This is the sort of thing I would expect from Winter, but not from you."

I remained silent for a moment.

I didn't deny it. I couldn't. She was spot-on. It was a calculated move on my part, one that had required a little acting and a lot of ammunition. I'd manipulated a grieving man's guilt over the death of his... Queen? Lover?... to bait him into attacking me.

I felt guilty as hell. What I'd done didn't sit right with me. But a lot of things weren't sitting right with me – thousands of them, rotting away, empty husks that shouldn't have been. Fix wasn't really a friend – he was more of an acquaintance, really, I rationalized – and I needed the information.

"If a wizard were in a... tense situation, and did not know who he could trust, he might not be adverse to such a tactic," I hazarded. Sarissa scoffed and started walking, her heels clacking ominously on the wooden floor, Fix following in her wake. The Summer Knight glanced over one scuplted shoulder, giving me a look that promised pain, and kept walking.

The cold weight of the scabbard dug into my shoulders, and I was reminded of my original purpose in visiting the pub. I tentatively raised a hand, but thought better of it, and dropped it to my lap with a sigh. All of my genius planning had burned a bridge – a valuable one. I knew that relations between the courts would probably be affected. More than that, what I'd started with Fix was... personal. I had no doubts that, at some point down the line, he'd remind me of that fact.

I'd burn that bridge when I came to it, too.

As I left the bar, I caught Mac staring at me while furiously wiping at the stain on his apron. I opened my mouth to speak, but apparently, he wasn't in the listening mood.

"Trust, once broken, is hard to fix," he growled. For a moment, I thought he was talking about the falling out between Fix, Sarissa and I, but... his tone was hard, and the look he was giving me screamed _'personal'_.

"My pub. My rules," he stated, and pointed at the door furiously. "Out."

Wisely, I slammed my mouth shut, turned, and walked into the mid-afternoon sunlight, wincing as it pierced my eyes, blinding me.

I walked listlessly back to the car, and sat in the driver's seat. I sat there for a moment, my jaw set, as my efforts crumbled to pieces around me. Abruptly, my fingers clenched tightly around the keys, and I angrily slammed them into the ignition.

Dammit _...How many bridges would I end up burning?_


	10. Chapter 10

**[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Reviews]:** Some viewers commented that they felt Dresden was acting out of character during the last chapter. I'm not going to comment one way or another on that, but I'm going to leave you with a thought.

Jim Butcher's novels include plenty of instances that Dresden acts abnormal, but we read the book as a whole unit instead of individual chapters, so any abnormalities in his behavior are explained. Whereas with my story, you're only getting updates on a chapter-by-chapter basis. All of your questions, all of the mystery, will be resolved in the future, I promise you that - all I ask is that you keep the faith.

 **[Late Update]:** Real life has a habit of messing with your goals. Between job applications, travel, and life in general, I know this update is a little late. Rest assured that this story isn't abandoned, and that I'll be updating plenty in the near future. I also promised some action, and more crossover content, in this chapter. This chapter is a little odd - it's more like two chapters in one, totaling up to about 5,000 words. I'm already halfway through the next chapter, and just haven't had the chance to post it yet.

* * *

I walked endlessly, my eyes on my shoelaces, hands tucked into the pockets of my duster.

After I'd left Mac's Pub, I hadn't had a destination in mind – I just needed to lose myself for a while. All I saw was Fix's face, convulsing in pain, and Sarissa's disgust. Time passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the skies cold and empty, overcast and misty.

I didn't stop to eat or drink. The beating in my chest drowned out every other sensation. My duster felt entirely too hot, and I ached to be out of it, but couldn't remove it in the cramped confines of Murphy's car. Still, I couldn't bear to take my hands off of the wheel.

My magic had started acting up again, too. Static from the radio, and a flickering engine light, pulled me from my anger. I knew that my control was tenuous at best, and if I lost control I'd blow Murphy's car to hell. So I gathered my wits, just enough to pull over to the side of the road.

I glanced at a street sign – **King Drive** , it said, in block letters the color of Fix's hair. I shook the abrupt surge of anger away and pulled the keys, tucking them into the pocket of my duster.

When something bothers me, the last thing I want to do is sit around. I need to be doing something. Alchemy, or... I don't know. A new case. A new project. Anything to keep me busy, to give me an outlet. I figured that the bitter winter air would help to clear my head, so I popped the door and started walking. As luck would have it, I was in the perfect place to let off steam.

In a turn of good fortune, the first of the day, I'd arrived at Washington Park. The volleyball courts were decommissioned, their nets taken down for the winter. The vast expanse of the park, nearly a square mile across, was bordered by a thick ring of trees that blocked the sounds of nearby traffic. The park was peppered by old-fashioned light fixtures severely in need of replacement, but those weren't on yet, since the sun wouldn't set for another few hours.

Normally, it'd be crawling with dog-walkers, children and vendors, but that day it was all but abandoned. Part of it was the shift in weather – but I held no illusions. People were afraid to leave their homes at night. The baseball fields were abandoned. The pristinely cut grass was tipped with frost, the little blades glinting at me in the dim light of street lamps like hundreds of tiny little eyeballs.

My feet mirrored my thoughts, moving quickly, endlessly circling. I must have walked around the edge of the park twice, before – in my anger – I kicked a park bench, sending pain screaming through my foot.

The physical pain, though muted shortly by the power of Winter, was enough to punch through the haze of rage that had clouded my thoughts.

 _Dammit. How could I have been so stupid?_

I'd thrown away a lead for the scabbard. I'd thrown away information that could have led me to the Fomor, and to their victims. Worse, I'd thrown away two friends, maybe three. And while I was sure I could find more about the first two – I'd already thought of another source – the friends I'd lost weren't so easily replaced.

My emotions had been a little... riled, over the last few days. The Winter Mantle had been jumpy, too. I'm sure the time of year played into it – as Winter's power grew, so did the power, and weight, of the Mantle. But that didn't explain why I'd been so... impulsive. Reckless. Cold. Stupid. I'd let my tongue get away from me, and that scared me a little.

I mean, hell. I'd just wasted an entire day moping in anger and self-pity. What the _fuck_?

For all my wisecracks, and for all the tactless statements I usually make, I've got a fair bit of self control. As a Wizard, self-control is a must. It was something drilled into me as a kid by my adopted asshole, Justin DuMorne. He made sure that I knew _when_ to shut up, and _how_ to shut up. Trick is, most of the time, I just don't _care_ to shut up. If someone's enough of a shit-stain to earn my wrath, chances are they deserve it, and you can bet I'm not going to be pulling any punches where they're concerned. It didn't matter who I was talking with; as Mab herself can attest to, I call it like I see it.

I sat down on a park bench, and put my head in my hands, taking deep, calming breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The cool air burned my sinuses, and sharpened my thoughts.

Fix – he wasn't a bad guy. He hadn't deserved that last shot. Or the first. Hell, I'd caught Sarissa in my cross-hairs, too. Why hadn't I simply talked to them? Why hadn't I just asked for their help? True, I'd been suspicious of their motives – but should I have been? Was I letting my paranoia, my fear over losing Maggie, get the better of me? Was what I'd seen the night before, when I'd seen all those mangled children, still affecting me? Had it messed with my head?

What was happening to me?

I clutched the bridge of my nose and grimaced. There was a danger to using the Sight – a very real danger. What you see, you don't forget. Wizards had lost themselves to the Sight, their minds destroyed by what they'd seen. Some looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back; some were blinded by the sheer beauty of what they'd seen, and lost themselves.

I was pretty sure my case was one of the former.

None of it made any sense. I'd seen Hell, but I'd made it out in one piece, just like I always did. I'd known the risks, seen the bodies, known before I'd opened up the Sight that whatever I'd see would be terrifying – but why was I losing control? Why was I taking it out on the people close to me?

I scowled, and stood, duster flaring about my ankles.

My questions were getting me nowhere. I found myself lost. And in that moment, I thought of Murphy, waiting by the fire. I thought of Michael, and his kids. I thought of home, Maggie sitting on my lap, her hair tickling my chin as I read to her.

The fear faded. The uncertainty lessened. My anger dulled to burning coals. I sighed, my breath fogging in the night air, and started walking back to the car.

I was being dramatic. Self-centered. Arrogant. I was on the clock; I had people counting on me. Whatever was going on with my head, I'd sort it out later. Right then, I had one task: get myself and Murphy's car home in one piece.

* * *

Fate, in its traditional disregard for my mental health and physical well-being, had other plans in mind.

It wasn't a long drive from the park to Murphy's place. Far from it – the roads were empty, and most of them were side-streets, no traffic lights in sight. Winter's chill had settled in, blowing little tufts of snow across the asphalt that crunched beneath my tires. Like the night before, the roads were fairly empty.

As I was maybe a mile from her house, I felt it.

Being a wizard, after being exposed to magic, you develop a sixth sense. Ordinary people usually won't pick up on ambient magic – but wizards, drawn in by such power, are sensitive to it. Even a novice mage can sense when magic's being worked. Different people feel it in different ways – in my case, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck crawl, like I was taking one step too close to a live wire.

But I didn't need my sixth sense to know something was up. No, this was my seventh sense rising to the occasion – my intuition, an intuition honed by years of detective work and fighting for survival.

Someone was watching me. Following me.

I discretely glanced at my rear-view mirror, but didn't see any cars. The suburban streets were quiet... nearly abandoned. Cars were parked on either side of the road, still as gravestones. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought I saw shadows – shadows with beady little eyes, hungry eyes, and grasping fingers – sitting in their seats.

I reached down, as if to adjust the radio, and slid my hand into the glove compartment. My fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of my .357. I knew I was breaking at least half a dozen state and federal laws, driving around with a gun in my lap, but frankly, I had other concerns at the time.

I didn't want to take any chances. Something was screaming at me to keep moving, not to stop the car. Instead of heading straight to Murphy's, I circled the block, before making a U-turn of questionable legality.

My eyes scanned the darkness, drifting from mirror to mirror, as I drove. Still, the streets were quiet. Empty. Had my intuition been fooling me? Perhaps I'd just been paranoid?

I thought I saw something, up ahead, in the dim beam of the headlights. It was a flicker of movement, the color red. I squinted my eyes, but couldn't see anything -

Steel shrieked, gravity stopped working, and I flew.

I felt a sudden burst of magical energy. To call it an explosion would be an understatement; one moment the surrounding air was clear of magic, and the next, I thought I'd been struck by lightning. Everything went white for a moment, as the energy overwhelmed my senses.

And then I felt the car lift and tumble, with me still inside of it. I lost my sense of direction, and nearly lost my head, as I tumbled end over end, knocking against the leather-lined seat and the dashboard. Thankfully, I _was_ wearing my seat belt.

Like they say in the commercials, Click It or Ticket. A risk-taker I may be, but I wasn't aiming to punch my ticket just yet.

The car rolled to a stop. My ears rang. I felt something cold and wet on my face – the window had shattered, I realized. The snow didn't melt when it touched my skin, though – I noticed, absently, that I'd been coated in a fine layer of frost.

How long had I been dazed? It didn't feel like I'd been there long... no, I realized, as the throbbing in my head started to fade. It was the mantle. The Winter Mantle was easing the pain. Slowly, the ringing in my ears faded, and I felt strength return to my limbs.

Limbs aching and stiff, I forced myself to move. I fumbled with my seatbelt, releasing it with a grunt, and fell forward, striking the dashboard and sending a lance of pain through my stomach.

I couldn't let it slow me down, though. I needed – _needed_ to get out of the car. Assess the situation. I was defenseless, and needed to fix that.

My hands, numb with cold and fatigue, grabbed my backpack, which was pinched between the mangled passenger seat and the floor. My staff, too, was pinned in the wreckage – I gripped it with both hands, bent at the knees, and heaved.

Unfortunately, I heaved a little too hard. The Winter Mantle tends to be a little hard to control, and unrealiable at the best of times at anything aside from killing. I heaved my staff clean through the car, steel bending before the enchanted wood. I fell backwards, limbs flailing, out of the car and onto the road.

I scrambled to my feet and drew the blasting rod from my backpack, brandishing it in my off-hand like a knife. I coughed raggedly, the cold air piercing my lungs, and leaned back against the mangled wreck that was Murphy's car.

Something drew my attention – something that wasn't there before. I knew it wasn't there – I would have seen it, or sensed it, long before. In the middle of the road was a shape.

At first I glance, I mistook it for a man. It had two arms, and two legs, like any other – but its height was... immense. It must have been at least eight feet tall.

The darkness of the night seemed to swell around it, drowning out the flickering street lights nearby, but... I could make out its features. I only had a moment to process them, but it felt like a lifetime.

It was... lithe, like a dancer, but with a coat of muscle that would have put even Fabio to shame. In its hands, it held a spear, warped and gnarled and twisted like a dead root, surrounded by a sickly miasma of foul energy that stained the air – it hurt to just to _look_ at it.

And when it starred at me and bared pointed teeth... when its mane of hair, blood-red and closely resembling thorns, bristled and writhed... when it roared, and the air burned with smoke and fire where it contacted its skin... I didn't need the Sight to know that the creature in front of me couldn't possibly human.

That made things easier.

I grit my teeth, wrapped my other hand around my blasting rod and brought all of rage to the forefront of my mind. Winter's Mantle enhanced it, and the flood of emotion sharpened my focus to a razor's edge.

Here, in front of me, was an enemy I could fight without restraint. I'd been having a bad enough day – and what this thing had just done was unforgivable.

"Alright, asshole. You want me? Fine. But you smashed Murphy's car to get to me. That's crossing a _line_ ," I growled. "I'm going to be sleeping on the couch for the next _month_ , and it's _all your fault_!"

The thing twitched violently, before crouching on disjointed legs and leaping, closing the distance between us – hundreds of feet – in the time it took me to draw a sharp breath.

 _Fast,_ I thought, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I saw my death in that moment, with a surety and clarity I'd never seen before.

I was no stranger to facing down danger. As a wizard, my strength was in preparation; I always had a contingency plan, a method of escape, a decent idea of who my enemies were and how to fight them.

This _thing_ , though... it was _death_. There was no time for preparation, no time for thought – it was simply too fast. I could have sworn I heard a sonic boom as the thing launched itself at me – or was that the beating of my heart?

The spear carved through the air, shrieking with delight at the promise of my blood, followed shortly by the creature wielding it. I wasn't sure how – perhaps it was instinct, or the Winter mantle, which surged to life at a moment's notice – but I shifted a hair to the side, and the creature missed me by inches, landing where I'd just stood with enough force to shatter concrete beneath its bare feat. I felt my stomach drop, but didn't stop moving – I couldn't afford to. It was faster than... _shit_. I'd never seen anything that fast.

I swung my staff, enforced with my will, to try to disengage. There was a flash of movement, and the thing's spear rose to meet my attack.

The impact rattled the staff in my hands, so much that I nearly dropped it. I grimaced as pain lanced up my arms. If I wasn't enhanced by the Mantle, I'd probably have broken at least one of them.

The creature howled, its thorn-like hair writhing, convulsing, like the twitching legs of a dead insect; then, it lunged.

I realized, in that moment, that I'd _underestimated_ its speed.

I backpedaled furiously, trying desperately to hold the creature at bay, as it lunged at me with the demonic spear. I barely managed to dodge the first strike – it clipped my shoulder, tearing fabric, the force of the glancing blow rattling my bones. I dodged the second strike, too – the road was icy, and the Winter Mantle gave me an edge when it came to footing. I contorted out of the way, awkwardly raising a foot to avoid a strike that would have easily hamstrung me.

The third swing, however, I couldn't dodge. The monster had greater reach than I did, greater, speed, and greater strength; dodging had caused me to lose balance, and the creature reared back for a crushing blow, holding the massive spear in its hands like a baseball bat. Running on instinct and adrenaline alone, fear burning through me, I forced my aching arms between the two of us, and flooded my staff with my Will.

The sheer force of the blow, even blocked, lifted me clean off my feet and launched me back a good twenty yards. I'd been hit by cars that hurt less. I tumbled and rolled for a moment, reaching blindly to catch myself, before sliding to a stop on the bare ice. Blinded by pain and half-panicked, I scrambled to my feet, and looked up -just in time time to see the tip of a spear bearing down at me.

" _Fuego_!" I shouted, my voice raw with panic. It was a decidedly un-manly scream, and I'm sure that if Murphy heard me, she would have never let me live it down. A wall of white-hot soulfire blossomed from the tip of my blasting rod and slammed into the thing's chest with the force of a cannon.

Instead of being pasted - or at the very least being knocked back - it merely staggered, before tumbling past me and tucking into a roll. It's spear missed me by a narrow margin, the tip slicing inches from my neck. For all of the energy I'd pumped into that blast, all of my fear, confusion and surprise, it had barely flinched. Steam rose off of its skin into the night sky, but it didn't show any sign of injury. Instead, it slammed its staff into the concrete and stared at me, like a tiger watching its next meal.

"Slap my ass and call me Susan," I hissed, holding up an arm to shield my eyes from the bits of gravel the beast had kicked up with its spear. I'd run into all manner of magical baddies in the past few decades; a shot like that would have given any one of them a fair run for their money. A blow like that should have have evaporated a creature of its size, or at the very least blown it off its feet and sent it screaming into the distance, giving me precious time to recover, to gather my wits, to plan.

Which could only mean one thing. In addition to being fast and freakishly strong...

"You're _magic-resistant_?"

It grinned, eyes flashing like bombs, blood-red. And for a moment, I saw something through the madness – mirth.

It didn't laugh – it opened its mouth and the world _shook_. I felt it in my chest more than I heard it. The air around me seemed to hum oddly, sounding a lot like one of those electric generators that you see in large buildings.

I wagered that anyone else would have been afraid at the sound. But not me – no. At that point, I was beyond fear. The rational part of my brain had short-circuited, and come up with only one response:

Anger. _Primal, raw, anger._

I gritted my teeth and planted my staff. "Bring it, you Darth Maul reject!" I shouted.

As I spoke, the power of the Winter Mantle surged, enveloping me in a tidal wave of icy cold. I needed the advantage it gave me – the reflexes, the endurance, the armor. The damp evening air crystallized around my fingertips, and crept up my duster, coating it in a fine layer of ice.

There was a flash of movement, and suddenly the spear was closing in, lunging me like a biting viper, its barbed tip glistening like so many fangs. The Mantle must have enhanced my perception of time slightly – because I could see the tip, careening ever-closer to my heart.

I knew I couldn't let the creature draw my blood. Call it intuition, but the the spear positively _screamed_ 'cursed', and I didn't want to find out what would happen its rose-bud tip pierced my skin. My subconscious was screaming at me to _move_ , and the Mantle was urging me forward, eager to sate its hunger for violence, for pain, for _revenge_. I made the best of both worlds.

In a move that would have made Luccio proud, I brought around my staff and managed to parry the blow, glistening red spikes hovering inches from my eyes. I drew myself towards the creature, limiting its reach advantage – a movement that would have been impossible for anyone who didn't have the blessing of the Mantle. And then, I howled, before thrusting up at the thing's solar plexus with my staff.

Like I mentioned earlier – a wizard's staff is a physical representation of their will. It's also common for Wizards to enhance their foci with enchantments, allowing for better control or manipulation of magic.

My staff possessed such an enchantment. Every time I moved my arm, every time I planted my staff on the ground, a tiny bit of kinetic energy was stored within the staff. When fully charged, I could release the runes I'd carved into my staff to deliver a blow strong enough to dent steel.

Of course, sometimes, a blow strong enough to dent steel isn't always enough – which is why I'd inscribed the spell seventy-seven times. I'd saved up a good two months' worth of energy in my staff, and was ready to let it loose.

Magic-resistant the creature may have been – but I was willing to bet that it wasn't as resistant to raw force. I triggered the rune array that decorated my staff, and it struck the creature's chest with the force of a small train. I closed my eyes to shield them from the sudden explosion of bone, sinew, and blood. The monster let out a choked cry of pain as it was blown backwards, much like I had been just moments before. It slid across the pavement, limbs flailing wildly on the ice.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, and the mantle receded slightly. For a moment, I thought that the fight was over. Not even one of the Black Court could take a blow like that and continue fighting. My fingers twitched towards the gun at my hip. If magic wouldn't put it down, I was pretty sure a round from my Dirty Harry Special would end things.

And then, the creature started to stand, its limbs twisted and warped, a macabre imitation of a man. As I watched, the broken bones in its chest popped and crackled, knitting themselves back into their proper places.

It wiped blood from its mouth, and grinned, reaching for the spear that lay on the ground beside it.

I cursed, turned on my heel, and broke into a sprint that would have left the Flash jealous. That's what it felt like, at any rate. All of that parkour on Demonreach had paid off, and the Winter Mantle was giving me a much-needed speed boost on the icy road.

I didn't know how much of a beating that thing could take – but I'd used my ace in the hole. I was willing to bet that it would recover, and I didn't have any weapons I could use against it. Fire had proven ineffective, and it was my strongest field of magic. I was betting good money that Wind would be equally useless. My revolver could probably make a dent, but -

But this thing was too fast. I wouldn't be able to draw my .357, let alone line up a shot, before it gutted me.

Being outclassed wasn't a new feeling, but... to be outclassed so completely... I didn't know what the hell that thing was. An Outsider, maybe? A skin-walker on steroids? A member of the Fomor - an old god, lost to time?

It didn't matter, either way. Whatever it was, I knew I couldn't fight it head-on. I needed to get back to Murphy's, to get to the safety of her threshold, so that I could plan, prepare, work out a strateg. Whatever the creature was, whatever its strengths, it was made of magic - and wouldn't be able to get inside the threshold, wouldn't be able to get to me.

Before I'd started sprinting, I was only a few houses down from Murphy's. I covered the distance in seconds, but... but not quickly enough.

I heard claws scraping on ice, along with heavy, animalistic breathing. The thing was behind me, and gaining. The only reason it hadn't caught me immediately was the ice on the road – something that was as much a curse to it, as it was a blessing to me.

I didn't dare look back, because I knew turning would slow me down, and I needed to make every inch between us count if I wanted to make it to Murphy's door before I got pasted. I kicked up gravel and loose powder with each step as I flew down the road, duster billowing behind me in the wind like a giant pair of bat's wings.

Surprisingly, the Mantle didn't protest to my retreat – which was a first. I suppose there are things even the Winter Mantle knows it can't compete with.

I ran fast, faster than I ever had before. The ground beneath me was nearly a blur. I'm sure it was my own adrenaline messing with my perception of time – terror does that to you.

I was almost at her door when it happened. I'd slowed just a fraction when I'd crossed her lawn, and again when I'd turned to leap up her front steps. At that moment, my pursuer had managed to catch up to me.

I made it to the porch, leaping up those steps, the front lights casting my shadow onto the whitewash door of the Murphy family ancestral home.

My hand reached for the doorknob.

And suddenly, my shadow was consumed by another, larger shadow, one that towered over me. Inches from the doorknob, from the safety of her home, I felt time slow, horror gnawing at my gut.

I saw a long, thin shadow - that of a spear - being raised, and then thrust.

Something sharp and metallic dug into my back, a hot pain coursed through my spine, and my limp body smashed through Murphy's front door in a shower of broken glass and wooden splinters.


	11. Chapter 11

**[Author's Note - Fell The Tempest]**

 **[The Moment You've All Been Waiting For]:** This chapter. No spoilers, but here it is! Consider this entire chapter, released only a day after the previous one, a belated Christmas Gift from me. **  
**

* * *

" _Harry_!" Someone shouted. I couldn't really make out who said it. At the time, I was being thrown head-over-heels, tossed into the foyer like a rag doll.

I slammed into the grandfather clock face-first. I'm not sure which broke first – the glass, or my nose. Either way, Mantle or not, I _felt_ that one. My eyes swam for a moment, but I didn't move, stunned by the sheer ferocity behind the blow.

I heard a loud, metallic clack, and then the sound of a chainsaw purring.

Something hot and slick run down my face. Reflexively, I raised a hand to my head – and it came away crimson. I stared at my stained fingertips for a moment.

"Harry!" There was the voice again. I could barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. I shook my head to clear it, but that didn't help much. I felt like like someone had stuffed cottonballs in my ears. Everything was hazy, muffled.

I broke out into a cold sweat. Had someone opened a window? Because it sure felt drafty -

"Dammit, Dresden, pull yourself together!"

This time, I recognized the voice. Murphy. It was Murphy.

"It's... Alright, Murphy," I said, my words a little slurred. I brought a hand to my head and winced. Concussion? Maybe. Maybe shock. I needed to lie down.

"He can't come through the thresh... through the..." I scowled, and forced myself to my feet, swaying unsteadily. "He can't come in."

"Tell that to _him_!" Murphy shouted. I turned to look at her. Her blonde hair was swept back in a ponytail, her gaze hot and hard. Dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants and a flannel shirt, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she looked every inch like a stay-at-home mom – or she would have, if she weren't dwarfed by the massive submachine gun in her tiny hands, jury-rigged with a drum magazine, its barrel flashing violently as it pumped ten rounds a second towards the doorway. So that was the sound I'd heard. I was going to say, I was pretty sure she didn't even _own_ a chainsaw -

"Harry! Snap out of it! We have to get to your lab!"

I glanced to the doorway, and saw the creature trying to force its way inside. Murphy's front door had been entirely destroyed by my dramatic entrance, leaving an opening eight feet tall and half as wide between Murphy's foyer and the dark streets beyond.

The creature batted aside the bullets with broad sweeps of its spear, so fast and precise that I could barely make them out. A bullet or two pierced its guard, drawing flecks of blood, but I knew those wounds would mend themselves. It was a stalemate – and Murphy would run out of ammo long before the demon tired. Even with my eggs a little scrambled, I knew that much.

But a threshold wasn't a physical barrier. It wasn't something that could be so easily crossed. Even if the demon managed to approach the doorway, what then? Murphy's threshold was strengthened by a hundred years' worth of memories, easily, and that strength had only been reinforced by my wards and a little magical assistance from the Better Future Society. Even if the door were gone, a creature from the Nevernever shouldn't have been able to -

Murphy's gun jammed, and the buzzing that had filled the air was abruptly silenced. She cursed, threw the submachine gun aside, and drew a small-caliber pistol from her waistband. She opened up on the doorway, each shot precise, targeting the demon's center of mass.

It was a futile gesture – and both the demon and I knew it. The crazed spearman stalked forward, taking bullet after bullet, its wounds healing as soon as they'd been inflicted. It approached the doorway, and reached out a hand.

There was a sound like bacon sizzling on a grill, and emerald-green sparks flew through the air where the demon's hand passed into the entryway. For a moment, the threshhold held it at bay.

Then, the demon heaved, and the barrier began to break. The fire parted around his fingertips, pushed away, soon, there was a hole big enough for it to stick its arm through.

"Murph," I said, "Let's go!" I grabbed her by the shoulder and guided her away from the doorway.

"What the _hell_ is that thing?" Murphy cried, as she hastily reloaded her pistol. I shook my head – I wasn't sure I could give her a decent answer, and given the aching in my head, I was better off not making the attempt. Between her mangled knee, and my nausea, we weren't moving at more than a fast walk.

"Bad," I said, my words slurred, "We need to go downstairs. Sword."

There was a roar from the foyer, and then the sound of glass breaking. The defensive wards around the home had broken. The threshold wouldn't last much longer, maybe a few precious seconds.

Murphy didn't respond. We made it to the kitchen.

"Daddy!" A young girl's voice shouted. I staggered over to the kitchen table and grabbed Ilya's skull. Its green eyes glowed intensely, and within those orbs I sensed... fear, concern, sheer terror.

"Daddy, you're back!" I heard a loud sob. "It's smashing my wards, nothing I'm doing is working! I can't fight it, Daddy!"

"No time to talk, Ilya!" I said, as I shoved her skull into my the pocket of my duster. "We've gotta move!"

I made it to the basement door – not sure how – and shoved it open, nearly ripping it off of its hinges.

"Murphy! Come on!" I shouted. I glanced back over my shoulder.

In the time it had taken me to grab Ilya, Murphy'd been busy. She'd grabbed a pump-action shotgun, one of those Remington Home Defense models, and held it in the crook of her arm. The pistol she'd once held was shoved into her pocket. And in her free hand -

I swallowed. At the time, I wasn't particularly inclined to do any math, but I was pretty sure she easily had enough to supply a small platoon. _Stars and stones._

"I'll be right behind you!" She glanced over her shoulder at me, and then at the stairwell behind me. "Get going!"

Murphy tugged one of the pins loose with her teeth, and lobbed a grenade into the foyer. And ducked behind the the kitchen cabinets. I heard a skittering, scraping sound – metal on ceramic tile.

And then, a massive explosion rocked the house. A war drum started beating between my ears. The lights flickered. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and I nearly lost my balance as a concussive wave hit me full-on in the chest.

A pained howl came from the foyer.

"You like that?" Murphy shouted, her terror masked neatly by the bravado that had gotten her through so many close calls. "Here, have another!"

She pulled the pin on another grenade.

This time, I didn't hesitate. She was buying me time, but there was no telling how long she'd be able to keep it up.

So I high-tailed it down the stairwell, as fast as I could without losing my balance.

I heard two more thumps, and then a savage roar. I made it down the staircase and into the basement, holding a hand out against the wall to steady myself.

I heard the basement door slam. I looked back, to see Murphy fiddling with something – a piece of wire, maybe. I couldn't make it out, since my vision was a little fuzzy -

"What are you staring at?" Murphy shouted, before she turned and hobbled down the stairs at a surprisingly fast clip. "Go! Get a move on!" In a manner of seconds, she caught up with me, grabbed the front of my duster, and hauled me alongside her.

I heard wood shattering behind us, and managed to turn my head to catch a glimpse of it. A blood-red spear tip had punched through the door like it was wet tissue paper, followed shortly by a savage kick that collapsed the door entirely.

I heard another click, and then covered my eyes as an explosion of light and searing heat filled the hallway. Murphy and I were tossed forward, down the hall, and landed in a pile of tangled limbs just outside the door to my lab.

We were hit with a shower of plaster dust, tufts of insulation, and splinters. I was on my back, Murphy atop me, groaning in pain. I opened my eyes and – looking straight up - I could see the ceiling of her second floor, the lights in the hallway blown out by the force of the blast, smoke and fire creeping along the carpet.

Murphy'd rigged the door to blow, I realized, and she had more than enough C4 to take out a small village. She'd just used it. _Hell's bells._ There was no way the demon could walk away from that blast.

The beast stepped through the doorway, grinning ferally, its body covered in a fine sheet of blood and bits of plaster. Cracked bones and flayed muscle knitted themselves with each step. It lumbered forward lazily, like it was taking a _stroll through the park_ , not a warzone.

Dazedly, I realized two things. First, it was a predator. It was a hunter by nature, by birth, by right. We were its prey – and unless we could pull out a miracle, we'd be boarding a southbound train, and soon.

Second, it was _playing_ with us.

"Murph," I said, "Now it's your turn. You need to get up!" I struggled to move, but the combined weight of Murphy and the debris was just too heavy to move. One of my legs burned – it was probably broken - my arms shook, my head pounded, and I felt like I was going to throw up. Dammit, when had I gotten so _weak_?

That was it. We were outmatched. Outclassed. No help was coming. Not the Knights of the Cross. Certainly not Molly – if she were able to help, she would have done so by now. None of my allies – my friends – were there.

All too often, I was the hero. I was the one who swooped in to save the day. I'd been in this position a handful of times, needing help, but never like this. I'd never been so certain of my own death before. I froze. My breath hitched.

"Harry," Murphy said, her voice cracking with the pain. "I... my leg. I can't give it any weight."

The demon loomed, mere feet away, and grinned.

And suddenly, I had strength again. I'm not sure where it came from.

I stopped caring. I stopped giving a shit about myself, about my broken body. All I could think about was the woman in my arms, crippled, inches from death.

I needed to _save_ her. _Save_ her. Because all of it – all of the _sacrifice,_ everything I'd done up until this point, all of the pain I'd endured, wouldn't mean a _damned thing_ if I let her die. Because she needed me. Because I needed her.

Because _my b_ █ _dy, my s_ ███, _was made of-_

"Okay," I said tersely, "Then I'm carrying you. Brace yourself."

I couldn't find my staff. It was buried beneath the rubble somewhere. But I didn't need it – I couldn't afford to look for it.

I struggled to my feet, lifting myself up on broken legs. The pain was so great I couldn't shut it out with the Winter Mantle – but I didn't care. It was irrelevant. Useless. It washed over me, a nameless tide, ignored and discarded.

Then, I looped both of my arms beneath hers, securing them around her waist. I bent at the knees, letting out a wordless cry, and heaved.

She hissed, her face paling. Still, I kept tugging. She choked back a scream as I freed her from beneath the rubble, and began pulling her back to the doorway.

Something like surprise flashed across the demon's face for an instant, and with a howl, it lunged forward, spear at the ready.

Its speed was limited by the size of its spear and the close quarters. The ground was covered in debris, making its footing unsteady. So when it charged at the both of us, it was forced into a straight line, and it was slowed down just a fraction.

That fraction was all Murphy needed.

There was another boom. Dimly, I realized that Murphy still held the Remington in her capable hands. She slammed her finger down on the trigger, the muzzle flashed, and the demon's spear arm exploded in a shower of blood and gore. It howled, and recoiled, knocked back two or three feet by the force of the slug.

I shifted, throwing an arm underneath Murphy's shoulder, giving her mine to lean on. She was forced to hobble in step with me, unable to put any weight on her bum leg.

"Keep... moving..." Murphy panted, "I've only got four rounds left." She racked it back, and readied another shot.

And keep moving, I did. I lost count of how many times she fired that gun. I kept dragging her back, until I bumped into something hard and cool, something that felt solid - real - beneath my probing fingers.

The door. My lab.

I supported Murphy in the crook of my arm, and reached back with my free hand, throwing open the door. I didn't look up – I was too absorbed in Murphy, in trying to maneuver her around the debris, in the smell of brimstone, in the plaster fog that filled the air. I thought of Maggie, of Susan, of Molly.

I couldn't die. _Not yet_. And so I shouldered on, unfeeling, unthinking, possessed only by a desire to save the woman in my arms.

Murphy's gun flashed one more time, accompanied by the sound of a pained shriek – and her shotgun clicked empty.

Just in time. We passed through the doorway, and into my lab. I slammed the door shut – it was made of four-inch-thick carbon steel, a precaution I'd had installed to protect my lab against any creatures from the Nevernever – and barred it.

I heard heavy breathing – and then, a roar. Suddenly, the steel door buckled beneath a fierce blow. It warped and twisted – but held, if barely. The crazed demon was _punching through it_. Literally p _unching_.

I glanced around the room, looking for a solution, for an escape, for _something_. I hadn't made any potions. I didn't have any weapons, except for _Amoracchius._ I had no idea if it would make a difference, if it would even harm the thing outside my lab. _No._ In my hands, it wouldn't. We needed a _Knight_ for that. But at the very least, I could keep it out of the demon's hands, keep it in mine.

I stored it in a gun safe – one of those big, honking storage compartments made of solid steel, easily weighing a ton or more, that were fitted with combination locks to keep out nosy kids. That safe was in my lab, just across the room, positioned next to the bookshelves that housed all of my disorganized boxes of potion reagents.

"Murphy," I said, picking up Bob's skull, "I need you to grab-"

"I've got it!" She shouted, over the roaring of the demon outside. I glanced in her direction – she'd already managed to get the safe open, and held the sword in her hands, its blade wrapped in a simple cotton cloth. She started hobbling over to me, shotgun discarded, her eyes wide.

Steel wailed like a dying animal and sparks flew as the door exploded inwards.

The demon stood, not ten feet away, its spear _hungry_.

My circle. I'd – I'd left my circle, from the morning's summoning, intact. It was already set up. I just needed to get inside it. Crossing a threshold would have reduced the demon's power. That was how thresholds worked. But a circle – it couldn't be crossed by anything spiritual. Period. Given the thing's aura, it couldn't be anything but a monster.

I lunged, with the last of my strength, and caught Murphy in a full-body tackle, the demon's spear passing inches above us.

And we fell into the circle.

I knelt over Murphy, my back to the demon, and slammed the circle shut with an effort of Will. It closed with a _snap-hiss_ , and I felt myself cut off from the surrounding magic of the room.

The demon approached, its thorn-like hair writhing, steam rising off of its skin in billowing clouds. It stood within spitting distance of me, raised its spear, and brought the weapon down with blinding speed.

Only for the spear to be stopped dead by the invisible barrier between us. For a moment, the spearman appeared confused. It flexed, putting more pressure on the barrier, trying to gouge through it – but the spear didn't budge an inch. The barrier held, uncontested.

The crazed spearman scowled, and with a savage roar, reared back and struck at the barrier, full force. It blurred into motion, striking with a blow that was enough to cleave heads from shoulders and smash steel into powder.

And again, his attack bounced away.

The dust settled. The demon paused. Things were quiet, for a heartbeat.

And then Murphy started laughing. It was a soul-shattering, beautiful sound, rough and tired, questionably sane, and filled with nothing but relief. She looked like she was going to cry.

I went limp, collapsing on top of her, entirely spent. I couldn't stand anymore. I could barely lift my arms – or my gaze.

"We... made it," she said, between giggles, "Dresden, we're alive. You... you beautiful, selfish, egotistical _bastard_." Her eyes were a little too bright, and her grin was a little too wide. She wiped at her face with a free elbow. Whether she was trying to hide tears or wipe away the blood and soot that caked her face, I wasn't entirely sure.

"It's not over yet," I murmured, before rolling myself over, and climbing to my knees. My eyes were on the demon – and Murphy's gaze soon followed mine.

The circle was designed to keep out anything magical. So, the demon – and his spear – would be repelled. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't force their way in. It was that simple.

The demon folded its arms across its broad chest, and glanced at the gun locker Murphy had just opened.

I glanced between it and the safe.

Realization dawned.

No. _No no no_.

It set its spear aside, and stalked over to the two-thousand-pound steel _brick_ that used to house _Amoracchius_.

And then, it _lifted_.

As the safe rose into the air, my stomach dropped. I knew what was coming.

Murphy and I were pinned in place. We couldn't leave the circle. If we did, we'd be killed. It was our only protection against the demon.

But that protection didn't extend towards non-magical, physical objects. The demon's spear was probably magically enhanced – and so it was repelled. But a conventional circle does nothing to protect a wizard against bullets, arrows, or anything real, anything fashioned in the material world.

The safe must have weighed a ton, easily. But it was lifted up and over the demon's shoulders.

The demon walked back to us, grinned, and brought the safe down in an overhead strike, corded muscles bulging, its mouth open in a savage roar. I cursed and brought my shield bracelet to bear, just in time for the safe to descend.

I saw stars. The shock of the impact hit my shield like a freight train. I staggered, already on my knees, swaying beneath the pressure. Murphy cried out in horror, my name on her lips.

I couldn't focus. I could barely think. All I felt, all I heard and saw, was static.

I felt the pressure fade, briefly, and heard Murphy suck in a breath. I knew I couldn't falter – her life was in my hands. More than anything, I had to _save_ her. Even if it killed me to do it. Even if it destroyed me in the process, even if it _burned_ me from the inside out. Mindless and savage, I roared, raising my shield again, pouring all of my Will into that single barrier.

 _-It was made... It is made... of-_

The monster brought the safe back for another swing, and it descended with the sound of a thunderclap. Steel bent as it struck the barrier I'd willed into being between us and the beast. I felt my shield crack beneath the force of the blow, and it took everything I had to remain conscious. The circle around us began to glow from the sheer amount of power I was putting out. My shield bracelet, clasped tightly around my wrist, glowed white-hot, scalding me to its touch.

I had nothing left to give. I had nothing more to spend. No more tricks, no more cards to play. I couldn't even focus enough to spit out my death curse, because I had to keep the shield up, in a desperate bid to save Murphy.

I had nothing.

 _Nothing._

Well... I suppose it would be wrong to say I had _nothing_. I had Murphy. I had a person that I loved in my arms. And like any Disney movie will tell you – Love, with a capital L, can make any person do stupid, insane, impossible things.

And, more than Murphy, I had a wish. It was a kid's dream, a fantasy, but in that moment, it was all I had. And I clung to that wish: to survive. To protect. To _save,_ like I'd always done. To make things _right_. To _atone_. To be there for the people who had stood by me for so long.

It was a hopeless battle. I knew that much. And still, I continued to fight, continued to throw everything I had into that simple shield.

The third blow drove me to the floor, my shield falling to pieces around me. The circle beneath me glowed brightly, a vibrant blue.

...Something wasn't right. The rational part of my brain chose to assert itself, as I took in the details, my face inches from the Murphy's, held up only by my elbows and sheer force of will. It took everything I had to avoid her panicked eyes, and instead focus on the circle I'd drawn that morning, drinking in the details with a clinical gaze.

The circle... it hadn't been this complex when I'd drawn it. Sure, I'd modified the circle to include a summoning array – surrounded it with candles, and the like – but... I hadn't set up anything like this. Little runes were drawn inside of the circle, pierced by crisscrossing lines in a pattern that was totally alien, something I was unfamiliar with. I'd never seen anything so complex.

I felt a heat on my back – was I bleeding? No, it wasn't me.

No. It was – it was the _scabbard_. I wasn't quite sure what was happening, but I was hoping - desperately hoping - for a miracle.

The demon raised the twisted hunk of steel, gripping it like a hammer between its outstretched hands. It roared, and brought the safe down in a final blow, a blow that would smash me into _paste_.

I closed my eyes... And I heard a sound. Wind chimes.

A hand. I saw a hand. Its fingers, clad in a medieval-style steel gauntlet wrapped around the grip of _Amoracchius._  
 _  
_And as I watched, captivated by the sight, the blade _changed._ It grew, extending to easily four feet in length, and began glowing with a soft, golden light. Where it had once been a hand-and-a-half sword, it was now long enough - large enough - for two. The blade itself thickened, and runic script emerged on the weapon's surface. Sidhe Runes, I noted, dispassionately.

The demon brought the safe down, intent on smashing us to powder. Instead, the safe in its hands was bisected - neatly, straight through the center - by a blade that glowed like starlight. Chunks of warped steel fell to the floor on either side of Murphy and I, missing us by inches.

I stared at the sword – and then, my gaze shifted. First, to the hands that held it, small and graceful despite their obvious strength. Then, up the arms and to the torso – that of a lithe woman, clad in a steel breastplate and blue-and-white battle-dress that flowed to her ankles, clearly designed for warfare. The platemail she wore glistened in the dying light of the circle. Her hair, blonde, was done up in a french braid. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties – but the confidence she commanded, the regal way she held herself, let me know she had to be older than that.

For a moment, given the woman's height and hair color, I thought I was looking at a clone of Murphy.

Then, she turned to us.

My heart stopped. I felt my throat constrict, my breath catch in my throat. I found myself completely taken in by the woman in front of me. From the way Murphy stilled beneath me, I knew I wasn't the only one.

Her eyes were sea-green, endless and deep, eyes that wouldn't look out of place on a member of the Summer Court. Her beauty was alien, but alluring - like one of the Sidhe - the kind of beauty men started wars for, the kind they wrote about in ancient texts. Her features looked like they'd been chiseled from granite – pure, noble, pristine, untarnished by the destruction around us. Her voice, cool and collected, rang softly like the wind chimes I'd heard moments before.

"A moment, Master. I'll handle this," she said. Her voice bore a distinctly British accent, in a way a fop like Binder would never be able to achieve. It caressed my ears like sweet music, and felt entirely out of place in the hellhole my lab had become.

And then, with a burst of speed, the Knight – she couldn't have been anything else - stepped from the circle and brought her sword down in a flashing arc, aiming for the crazed spearman's head.


	12. Chapter 12

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Clarifying]:** This story is taking place in the Dresdenverse, and not the Nasuverse, and as such rules of the Nasuverse are secondary. This applies to the nature of magic but also the history of the world and the characters that inhabit it. In short: some details from Unlimited Blade Works, such as the origin of the Holy Grail War, **have been altered** so that they mesh more fluidly into the Dresdenverse, and interact more with the history of the world. As the story progresses, this will become more apparent.

 **[Focus of the Story]:** I'm attempting to write this story in the style of Jim Butcher, which shows events through Dresden's eyes. Additionally, the focus of the story is not on magical theory, but on solving the mystery of the disappearing children - as well as showing the affects that the promise of a wish granted, as well as the introduction of Saber, will have on Harry and his companions.

 **[Questions]:** If you have any questions about how a particular type of magic works, a particular weapon, servant stats or origins, feel free to **ask away in the reviews**. If it doesn't give away any future plot points, I might do a little **[Talks]** session to sate your curiosity.

 **[Re: Servant Strength]:** Yes, Harry has received the beating of his life. The worst enemy a wizard can face is a lack of preparation, and not only was Harry unprepared, he went up against an unknown servant. In the Nasuverse, Servants have the power to slay gods; as representatives of the Holy Grail, an omnipotent magical construct capable of granting any wish, it is no surprise they have this strength.

 **[Thank You]:** A special thanks to **Jouaint, Tsubasamoon, Sociopathic-Antichrist** and **Chaostomb** for the awesome reviews! They've made me think a lot about potential directions to take the story, and helped me better articulate the focus I want my writing to take.

* * *

 _Steel rang._

I couldn't move.

 _A voice cried out in anger._

I didn't have it in me.

 _Blades clashed, and the world was torn asunder._

My legs refused to obey me. The twitched, shook, and fell far short of actually moving. There was a heat in my joints – like the tendons had swelled and torn from the bone. My pain was probably caused by the crash. Or from being tossed through Murphy's foyer. Or from the explosions. Or from throwing up a shield and getting beaten senseless.

 _And my body, my soul, was made of -_

I wasn't really sure, and was too tired to care.

It was dark. Too dark. The lights – they'd been blown out. Little shards of glass littered the concrete floor. They surrounded me like, glistening in the dim light little stars. I knew I'd have to clean up the mess later, but I was actually glad – I didn't have the energy to stand up and hit the light switch, and with the headache I was nursing, the last thing I wanted was to be in a bright room.

I should have passed out. That much was clear, even to me. Sleep called to me. I felt my eyelids drooping shut, but forced them open. I wasn't sure how I was still alert. The physical pain alone threatened to pull me into mindless oblivion, and the intensity of the magic I'd thrown out should have torn my _soul_ apart, but something had welded the pieces together. Something was keeping me from falling into the abyss. _Something_ -

"Come on," Murphy said. I could barely see her. I heard a scuffling sound, a grunt, and then a dull thump. She hadn't been directly hit by the spearman, but I imagined that without an enchanted duster or a Mantle for protection, getting smacked by a football-sized chunk of C4 and having several hundred pounds' worth of debris fall on your bum knee probably hurt. A lot.

Chances are, she wasn't in a much better state than I was. Why she wanted to move in the first place, I had no idea.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, broke the circle, and began crawling towards my bookshelf, determination in her eyes. I followed her gaze – and saw it, secured in one of those concealed safety holsters secured beneath one of the shelves.

A pistol. She was going for _pistol_.

I knelt there, mindless, watching. I should have felt something. Maybe fear – fear that since she'd left the circle, she could be killed by the demon. Maybe I should have felt frustration – because she was risking her neck for a pistol of all things, a pistol that wouldn't hurt whatever was outside of the lab, being held at bay by our mysterious new ally. Maybe I should have felt pride – because, in spite of the overwhelming odds, in spite of her own injury, she still kept fighting.

Murphy – stars and stones, even coated in blood and grime, she was so _beautiful_ \- glanced back at me, and her blue eyes flickered with concern.

"Harry," she said, confusion in her voice.

"Murph," I sighed. I felt strangely calm. _Hell's bells_ , I was tired. I had something I wanted to say, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember -

The world around me swayed.

I leaned to the side and dry-heaved. I gripped my chest, struggling for air for a moment, as my body shook, trying to get rid of something I didn't have.

Murphy said something else – her voice was oddly tense - but I couldn't make it out. I sat there, somewhere between asleep and awake, staring into empty space. My eyes slipped shut for half a second.

And when I opened them, my head was on Murphy's lap. I wasn't sure when Murphy had gotten back in the circle, or when I'd started lying down, but I wasn't going to complain. Calloused fingers combed through my hair, brushed away the blood and grime. Blue eyes, absorbed in their tender work, didn't flinch.

"Hey," I said, and I started move. A hand – Murphy's – pressed against my chest, gently forcing me back down. Not that I'd gained much altitude to begin with. Everything hurt. I couldn't tell if the Mantle was active or not – and for my sanity, I prayed that it was. I felt like I'd gone ten rounds with a stampeding rhino.

"Shh," she said, clasping my hand in hers and squeezing gently. "Relax. Your fight's over. You really came through for us."

My fingers twitched a little, and I shook my head – or I tried to, at least. She raised an eyebrow.

"No, I didn't." I said. "She did."

My head lolled to the side, and I looked out the open doorway.

I saw the knight, her back to me, sword raised against the demon. I would have barely been able to see her, if it weren't for the light her sword was putting off. Its golden glow wrapped around her, flickering off of her platemail dress like fire, as she whirled and struck out at the beast.

For a moment, I was consumed by an ages-old instinct that Murphy still gives me shit about to this day. I call it chivalry, although some don't take too kindly to it. When I see a woman in danger, I get mad, and I throw myself into the fray of whatever battle's going on to make sure she gets out alive. It's know it's probably a little sexist, so sue me, but... I, Harry Dresden, am a sucker for a damsel in distress.

And seeing her stacked up against that monster – she couldn't have been more than five-two, and he had to be at least eight feet tall – sent those instincts into overdrive. I was sure, utterly sure, that she was going to get squished, pasted on the concrete like chewed gum.

But after a few moments of that not happening, I began to re-evaluate my position.

The knight – whoever she was – was holding her own. No, more than that – she was driving the beast _back_.

Stars and stones.

It didn't take me very long to realize wasn't watching a fight... I was watching a _beat down_. It was too one-sided to be called anything else.

Though she didn't look particularly strong, the massive sword in the knight's hands flashed back and forth with a surety and control that spoke of a lifetime of training. Golden steel swiped through the air, and with each swing the air around her rippled. With each swing of her sword, gusts of wind shredded through Murphy's home, gounging into the ceiling and shearing away wallpaper behind the demon. Even when it blocked her strikes, they still managed to draw blood.

At first I thought it the raw force of her swings, until I felt magic humming in the air. She was strong, yes – but it felt like she was using her blade as a _foci_ , and was channeling wind magic through its edge, extending the reach of her attacks and using it to boost her striking power. I'd seen Wardens use similar methods of attack, including Luccio, but not to this insane degree of precision or power.

Her blade arced through the air, letting out _sonic booms_ as it connected solidly with the demon's spear. My duster billowed with each swing of her sword, and I was a good twenty feet _behind_ her.

And the demon _buckled_ beneath the blows, howling as its spear was batted aside. The knight let out a wordless battle cry and charged forward, blade surging in an arc that would have hamstrung the demon if it hadn't leapt aside at the last moment.

I wasn't sure what I was seeing, at first. It didn't make sense to me. Magical enhancement aside, the knight looked... well, frail. Almost like a kitten. She didn't exactly have a lot of weight to throw around. So how -

As if sensing my thoughts, Murphy spoke. "The hallway," she said, awe in her voice. "She's..."

I suddenly understood. In pitch darkness, in a totally unfamiliar place, she was presented with a crazy strong opponent. In response, she'd stepped forward, taken up arms, and, on the fly, come up with a plan to kill it.

And that plan was _working_.

The knight wasn't just skilled, she was damned _smart_. She was sticking to one side of the hallway, pinning the crazed spearman close to the wall, preventing him from passing into the open space behind her. Because of its smaller size, _Amoracchius_ was more effective in close-quarters – doubly so in Murphy's cramped basement - and because of its wielder's short stature, she was able to make full use of the blade, putting the full weight of her body behind her strikes, forcing the demon back, step by step, down the hall.

The demon couldn't make full use of his weapon's greater range. His spear had reach, but since his side was to a wall and he had a staircase at his back, he couldn't bring it around to strike. His swings had no power, and as scary as it looked, as cursed as it felt, the spear in its hands had become a liability.

And, sure, part of the reason she was crushing the spearman was that her weapon was more suited to the battlefield. But even I could see that she fought on a level far outstripping anyone I'd ever seen, even Michael. She was _good_. Hell, she was more than good – she was _amazing_. People spent lifetimes working on their swordplay, and never got to half the level she was at.

The knight lashed out with a particularly fierce blow, and sent the demon _staggering_ back, as it lost its footing on a pile of rubble. She took a step forward, ready to rend the demon's head from its shoulders, only for the demon to stab its spear into the ceiling, dropping a hail of plaster and wood down on the knight. A particularly huge chunk of concrete, probably part of the building's foundation, shot towards her head like a missile.

The debris didn't even come _close_ to touching her.

She moved with the grace and precision of a ballet dancer, weaving around the falling rock with a grace and speed that made it look like she was in bullet-time. And when the demon followed up with a strike set to pierce her heart, her sword was already in a position to parry.

It was like watching one of those Indiana Jones fight scenes from the first couple movies, back when the choreography was shit. When the demon moved to attack, it was like she _knew_ what was coming and was _already in position_ to defend against it.

Maybe Butters wasn't the only Jedi among the Knights of the Cross. At the very least, now he wasn't the only one with a glowing sword.

Speaking of which - if the scabbard in my backpack hummed with power, her sword _throbbed_ with it. I felt its light wash over me, felt a warmth on my face and hands, like I was outside on a sunny day. Just looking at it made my head feel a little clearer, made my aching limbs feel a little more sure.

"Begone, mad dog!" The knight shouted, fire in her eyes and steel in her hands. Enraged, the demon lunged, thrusting its spear at her midsection. In a flash, almost faster than my eye could track, she batted the spear to the side, trapping it against the wall with her sword. It roared angrily – and she stepped inside of its guard, driving the pommel of her sword into its gut. Its angry cry became a choking gasp when the air was driven from its lungs.

And, pressured backwards by the relentless swordplay, blinded by pain and darkness, its grip slipping on the spear it held... the demon _tripped_.

It stumbled, falling back, gripping the cursed lance with one hand, desperately trying to pull it from the wall.

The knight let out a wordless cry, and angled her blade sharply. She twisted and lunged, so that the blade of _Amoracchius_ was sent skittering along the length of the spear. Sparks flew.

I heard the sharp hiss of steel-on-steel, and then a pained cry. Her blade sank into the demon's wrist, biting deep into the tendons, severing them neatly. Blood sprayed out in a torrent, giving the wall a fresh coat of red paint. It roared, steam rising off of its chest in billowing clouds, its blood-red eyes wide with agony.

She'd _done_ it. I couldn't believe it. She'd actually managed to hurt the damned thing, whatever it was.

Of course, the demon started healing almost immediately, but I noticed that it wasn't healing quite as quickly as it had before, when I'd struck it with my staff. And it looked... almost slower, by a hair. Maybe it was meeting its limit to heal itself – maybe it was weakened by Murphy's threshold. Either way, the window its injuries created provided more openings for the knight to strike. Her blade flashed again, and the demon cried out as it lost three fingers on its other hand.

The knight stepped in for the killing blow, her sword poised for the thing's heart. There was no way it could dodge, not in the confines of the hallway, and it couldn't block with mangled hands that could barely hold its weapon. My breath hitched in my chest as I watched her sword descend towards the demon.

And then, there was a flash of red light, and the monster _disappeared,_ dispersing into a cloud of magic dust. The knight's sword bit through open air and impaled itself at the base of the stairs, sliding neatly into the concrete floor like it was made of butter.

The knight stood there, her sword impaled in the ground, and stared at the empty air. I couldn't see her face, not from where I was sitting, but her shoulders stiffened a little, and she bowed her head.

* * *

Silence fell.

I glanced up at Murphy, and found her eyes fixed on the knight.

Murphy looked... odd. Her lips were pursed, and her brow was furrowed. I wasn't quite sure what she was looking at, or what was running through her mind.

"Murph," I said, "you look like someone just... force-fed you your own cooking." It was a little difficult to talk, but I made every liter of air in my lungs count. I have a reputation of 'never shutting up' to live up to, after all.

Murphy blinked, and then glanced down at me. I didn't ask the question – she would think it sounded too much like chauvinistic concern – but she heard it anyway. Instead of answering, she passed her hand over my forehead, brushing matted hair away from my eyes. Her fingers came away red, slick with blood, but she didn't seem to care.

"What am I going to do with you?" Her lips, pale and ghostly in the dim light, twitched.

"...Tell me I'm pretty," I said, my words a little slurred. "I could... use a little pick-me-up."

"That's a tall order," she said, her steel-blue eyes settled on mine. "Maybe once you've cleaned up a little. You look terrible."

"How could you... say something like that? Don't you know... I've always wanted to be... a model?" I cracked a grin.

"...A model? You?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. She looked pointedly from my messy hair, to my bloodsoaked shirt, to the tattered duster I was wearing – and even down to my tennis shoes, which were stained with salt and worn through in several places.

Hey, it wasn't my fault that my clothes took a beating. It tends to happen in my line of work.

"Don't... talk like that. You'll upset my fans," I said.

"You have fans?" Her voice was as dry as a freaking desert.

"Murph," I groaned, shifting my hand slightly so that it rested on my chest, "I'm in enough pain as it is."

"Beatings will continue until morale improves," she drawled, running a hand along my jaw. In case I haven't mentioned it before, she's really _good_ with her hands. It must come from all of her time spent cleaning guns, or... flipping around bad guys, maybe. Anyway, I leaned into her touch, just a fraction.

"Mmm," I replied. "You're a sadist."

"You like it," she reminded me, before glancing away. "Let's talk about your modeling career later. We've got company."

"Company?" I furrowed my brow for a moment, then blinked. "Oh. Right. Renaissance Power Girl."

The knight had returned, and stood a few feet away. The sword in her hands put off a pleasant golden glow – a much-needed once, since the lights had been blown out and we would have been swimming in darkness otherwise.

She held her sword in front of her, cradled in her arms, as though she were going to hand it over. Her golden hair shadowed her eyes as she bowed her head. I glanced sideways at Murphy – and she appeared just as confused as I was.

I wasn't an expert on medieval custom, but that looked an awful lot like a position of fealty. She held that pose, her head bowed, utterly still. Her posture screamed "regal".

"Upon thy summons, I have come forth," she said. "I ask of you, are you my Master?"

Words have power. That's something fundamental, something every person knows. The right word at the right time can change lives, make or break friendships, save people or destroy them. Words are man's attempt at describing the way of things, material and immaterial – of giving context to the events of the everday, cataloging our experiences and sharing them with others. Words like love, loyalty, vengeance, and power, given context, inspire emotion – the basis of all magic, pure and powerful.

That's why wizards are so reliant on words when they cast spells – words take magic and give it form, give it shape, defining it. Words twist the fabric of reality, giving meaning to things, turning magic – the energy that flows throughout all life – into reality.

Her words hummed with power. I felt that power hovering in the air between us, invisible, its tendrils wrapping me in their embrace. The energy surged through me, flooding my limbs, setting my heart racing.

After a moment, she looked up, her expression faltering slightly. It seemed she was waiting for a response – and once I realized that, I gave her one.

I blinked owlishly at her.

"...Master? Summons?" I asked, brow furrowing. "Oh, you mean... in the circle. Yeah. Okay. But this whole... 'Master' thing... you sure are forward. But I don't... kiss faeries. Smoked the last one that tried."

I thought of the time Maeve, the former Winter Lady, had tried to seduce me in Undertown - and a silly grin worked its way onto my face. "Take that, snowflake."

The knight glanced at Murphy, and some exchange took place between them that I couldn't see.

"You are not well," the knight said after a moment, pursing her lips. "and we cannot stay here. Let us retire to somewhere more appropriate, rest, and speak of this matter in the morning. This is your home, yes? Have you a sitting room?"

Murphy shrugged. "Well, I had one. After all the plastic explosive I used, I'm not sure if it's still intact, but we can check." I felt her shift beneath me, only to tense, hissing in pain. The blond knight winced, her sea-green eyes filled with concern.

"Would you care for assistance?" The knight asked, stepping forward. She knelt beside us, and I took that moment to get a good look at the two of them, Murphy and the knight, side-by-side. The knight's features were a little more Germanic – her nose was just shy of being hawkish, and it was obvious that her platinum-blond locks were completely natural. Murphy's eyes were a little smaller, her hair was more dirty blond, and she had a pale Irish complexion, but... with a little hair dye and some make-up, they could have passed as cousins. It was kind of spooky.

"...Not really, but I'm not seeing another option," said Murphy. She patted me on the shoulder. "Take Harry first, though. I'm in pain, but I'm alright. He's... a little out of it."

"You're out of it," I replied, and I flipped her the bird. At least, I think I did. My finger may have twitched a little. Still, it's the thought that counts, right?

Murphy apparently didn't think so, because she rolled her eyes and huffed.

It seems not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.

"Agreed," said the knight, her voice serene. "As I require both arms to lift my Master, I will leave my sword in your care."

Murphy raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't put up much of a fight. I felt small arms wrapping around me, and then hefting me into the air with surprising ease. My head swam for a moment, and I felt like dry-heaving again, but letting loose on someone so pretty was something I'd never live down, so bit my tongue and fought back the nausea.

I dwarfed the woman who piggy-backed me up Murphy's stairs. Every time she climbed up a step, the tips of my toes bumped into the next. I felt like I was floating – and may have giggled like a schoolgirl at the thought. Thankfully, the knight didn't comment on it. Even if I couldn't express it at the time, my dignity was awfully grateful.

The seconds sort of blurred together. The knight had left her sword behind, so there wasn't any light in the stairwell, and the war drum beating between my ears threw off my perception of time.

Before we reached the top of the staircase, I had a coherent thought, for the first time in a while.

"Hey, you," I said. Silver tongued, that's me.

She turned her head slightly, but kept her eyes on the stairs. "Yes, Master?"

"You have a name?"

Her gaze flickered to mine for a moment, and then away.

"...Saber. Call me Saber." Her voice glided over my ears like silk, soothing my aching head, releasing the tension in my limbs - along with the fear, the anger, that had kept me conscious.

"That's nice," I murmured, my eyes slipping shut.


	13. Chapter 13

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Longest Chapter Ever]:** There's a lot of information that plays into the Grail War, and most of it is laid out here. There's more to it, some aspects that I deliberately haven't covered. Either way, I hope this clears up some things for your guys about how the War works in the Dresdenverse! Seven thousand words in a week... I had to crunch through two writer's blocks, too, which wasn't easy.

As much as I said "this isn't going to be a magical theory story", the basics need to be explained for the Dresden Files fans who have never been exposed to Fate/UBW. Additionally, Harry (being inquisitive by nature) wouldn't leave any information to chance, so this chapter delved a little bit into that genre.

This was probably the most challenging chapter for me to write so far, but I hope the finished product is up to par with the other chapters.

 **[Reviews]:** I really appreciate all of the support and constructive criticism you guys have been giving me. Keep it up, let me know what you think!

* * *

I cracked open my eyes.

I expected pain. With the adrenaline gone, and my nerves fried by magical discharge, I expected crippling pain.

I'd been hurt in the past, sure. I'd been shot, stabbed, burned – pretty much everything short of having limbs removed. Pain was a by-product of those experiences, and each one taught me a little something.

But never, in my entire life, had I been thrashed as badly as I was that night in Murphy's basement. As hard as I'd fought, I'd had my ass handed to me on a silver platter with complementary drinks, free of charge.

So, naturally, I expected to be _feeling_ that pain when I woke up.

I didn't expect to feel... warm. Comfortable. A little stiff, kind of tired, but otherwise alright.

When I woke, whatever I was lying on was... firm. Lumpy. A little abrasive to the touch, like jeans that weren't quite worn in yet. I lifted my head slightly and ran a hand along my mattress, feeling the edge – and the hand-cut wooden frame beneath it, a little rough to the touch, but well-crafted and sturdy.

I was at the Carpenter's, lying on their living room couch.

Murphy was next to me, with Ilya's skull resting comfortably in her lap. She was sitting in an easy chair, within arm's reach of the couch. An oversized flannel blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, and a small cup of something that smelled like coffee was held between her hands. Her breaths came slow and steady, and her head lolled slightly to one side. She'd probably fallen asleep looking after me, if the bags under her eyes were anything to go by.

I watched her for a moment, a smile playing at the corner of my lips.

For a moment, I thought about waking her. More than anything, in that moment, I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to feel her against me, to feel her breath and her heat mingled with mine. My memories of the night before were coming back to me – along with a palpable sense of relief, an excited high in the aftermath of a horror story, knowing that I was _alive_.

In the end, I decided against it. Murphy looked like she needed her rest. There were thick, dark circles under her eyes, like she'd gone one too many rounds with a pissed-off Mike Tyson... and I imagined that wasn't too far from the truth, given what we'd gone through.

Someone had thrown an emergency blanket over me, one of those shiny, light-weight numbers used by medical responders, designed to retain heat and prevent patients from going into shock. I shrugged aside the blanket, wincing as my back popped.

My clothes had seen better days. My face, and my hair, had been cleaned - but I felt my shirt sticking to me, probably with dried blood. I was still wearing my duster, and even my backpack, which explained the stiff back. Gingerly, I tugged at the sleeve of my duster - at the torn leather of my sleeve - and sighed tiredly. I could afford a new duster, sure, but this one was _mine_. It held _memories_ \- memories of Susan. I didn't know if it was possible to repair, but I figured with as much money as I had in diamonds, I could find someone to do the job.

I glanced out the window. It was dark. _Too_ dark. The lights were off, and it was pitch-black outside. I looked around, searching for a clock. _How long was I out?_ A hint of paranoia settled in my gut, a paranoia that too much time had passed, that I'd been asleep and something terrible had happened.

I didn't see a clock, but I saw light coming from the kitchen. I stood up, blanket wrapped about my shoulders, and walked towards the light. As I got closer, the smell of coffee tickled my nose, and set my mouth watering.

I had to squint a little until my eyes adjusted, but I was pleasantly surprised to see Michael and Charity at the kitchen table. They glanced at me as I padded into the room, bare feet slapping against the tile floor.

"G'morning," I murmured, raising a hand in a half-hearted greeting. "I'd say 'make yourselves at home', but..."

"Harry?" Michael asked. He looked confused, and moderately upset, like he'd just watched his kids renounce Christianity. "What are you doing?"

"Mmm. Getting my bearings. What time is it?" I sniffed, stumbled over to the table, and took a seat next to my longtime friend, putting my head in my arms. Despite the hours I pulled, despite my body insisting on rising before the sun did, I was never really a morning person. Not until I had a shot of caffeine, along with a teaspoon or two of mortal peril.

"It's four in the morning, Harry. You really shouldn't be awake yet." His tone sounded a little odd.

I set about pouring myself a cup – french vanilla, the staple of the American household. I took a moment to inhale the scent – and then paused.

Something about what he'd said bothered me, but I was too tired to think. "Body clock," I murmured, rubbing at an eye. "No sense in wasting daylight, right?"

"...You don't understand," Michael said. "You shouldn't be _awake_ yet."

Charity leaned across the table to me, arms folded across her chest, fixing me with a look that could melt steel. It was a look she'd perfected over the past some years, a look I knew very well. Though I wasn't sure what I'd done to piss her off this time, I instinctively leaned away from the table, as though touching it would burn my skin.

"I don't know how tough you think you are, Harry, but you're going to hurt yourself," she scolded. "You've only been asleep for a few hours now. You need your rest."

It took me a moment to understand, but when I did, my heart started hammering. I'd gotten my coffee, and now the terror to go with it.

"Wait, what?" I asked, stunned. "I feel... fine. A little stiff, probably from sleeping on the couch, but..."

Something was _wrong_.

I brought a hand to my head, feeling for the cut I knew I'd gotten the night before, when I tumbled head-over-heels and smashed through Murphy's grandfather clock. My hair was still matted with blood, and I'm sure I looked terrible, but – but my fingers met smooth, unblemished skin.

"Harry," pressed Michael, "If you aren't feeling any pain, it's because the Mantle is influencing you. You know just as well as I do that it prevents pain, but doesn't heal injury. I thought Bob went over that with you."

I brought a hand to my side – where I _knew_ I'd broken ribs the night before, when Murphy's car had tumbled end over end after being smashed like a tin can. Nothing was amiss there, either. My ribs were right where they should have been. I slapped my side hard, once, twice, just to be sure.

"He did. I just... the _hell_?"

"Language," Charity hissed, "and keep your voice down. The children are sleeping upstairs."

It was a foregone conclusion that neither Murphy, Charity, or Michael had the ability to heal me. And, based on the way Charity was speaking to me, my injuries had been... extensive. If Butters had been around to patch me up, there would still have been some evidence of it – stitches, tender flesh, _something._ The beating I'd taken, only hours before, would have killed just about anyone else. I should have been sidelined, crippled for life, or at the very least sent to the hospital.

But, no. I was perfectly fine. And, stars and stones, that scared the living _hell_ out of me. Because whatever healed me -

"It's _wasn't_ _the mantle,_ " I whispered, staring dumbly at my legs, which by all rights should have been broken.

Most people would be excited at finding their wounds spontaneously healed. It was a miracle, a water-to-wine, fish-in-a-basket, healing-the-sick Miracle. Me – I don't believe in miracles. Everything has a price. Every boon incurs a debt. That was a painful lesson I'd learned from my time with the Winter Court. So the question was... in exchange for my miracle, what was the _price_? Did someone else step in and work magic on me? I remembered, once, when Lea, my fairy godmother, had worked healing magic on me. The only reason she'd been able to do it is because she had a grip on my _soul_.

My thoughts raced. Dots connected. I remembered when I'd gone to the hospital, when I'd seen _Hell._ And I remember being in perfect shape the next morning.

At first, I thought the pills Murphy had given me, coupled with a good night's sleep, had done the trick. Because if it _wasn't_ the pills...

Had I been changed, somehow? The last time Mab had spoken with me, when I'd told her that I wasn't like her – she'd said, _not_ yet, her eyes flashing wickedly. It was a look that haunted me – and one of many reasons I hadn't sought her out in recent months.

And when I'd – when I'd manipulated Fix and humiliated Sarissa... what was it she'd said?

 _"That's something I'd expect from Winter, Harry, not from you."_

Was I changing, somehow? Was something _wrong_ with me?

I bit back a curse, and fought against the fear that had started gnawing its way into my belly. _No_ , I thought, _there's probably some other explanation. No need to get paranoid._

"What _happened_ last night?" I asked. I tried to keep my tone steady, but my words came out a little rushed. It was all I could do not to _scream_. "After I got here - what did you see?"

"You tell me," replied Michael, frowning. "Charity and I were putting little Harry to bed, when a woman in strange armor showed up at our doorstep, with a corpse over her shoulders that turned out to look a lot like an old friend of mine."

"...I was dead?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

Charity shook her head dismissively. "No, but you certainly looked the part. You were covered in blood and had a pretty nasty concussion. Which is why you should be lying in the _hospital,_ not in my living room. I told you as much, but even then, you wouldn't take my advice."

"I... what?" Eloquent, that's me.

"You refused to go. Said you didn't need it," Charity replied, sighing. "Just like always. I swear, you're as hard-headed as a mule. You said you just needed to rest, walked over to the couch, and passed out. How you're up and talking, heaven only knows."

"I walked... over..." I murmured, my head pounding. I brought a hand to my temple, wincing. "I don't remember any of that."

"I'm not surprised. You had a _concussion._ Memory loss is a common side-effect. Karrin and I have been up keeping an eye on you, making sure you're not going to go comatose on us, while your friend – Saber? - she's been guarding the door."

Her expression softened a little, and she glanced towards the foyer curiously. "Speaking of which. What's her story? How did you meet?"

The change in topic caught me off guard.

How was I supposed to answer a question like that. I felt like I'd been dropped straight into game night with the Alphas – only the loot was real, my HP was low, I didn't have massive thews, and apparently I was indestructible.

Oh, and the princess saved _me_ inside my _own_ castle. Talk about a buzz-kill.

"She's... actually, I have no idea. Is she here?" Charity eyed me strangely for a moment, then glanced over at the foyer.

"Yes. She's outside. Apparently – and this was according to her – ' _we are vulnerable, and there are enemies about that would strike us should we lower our guard_.' I told her our home is protected, but she insisted."

As a reward for Michael's service as a Knight of the Cross, his home – from the picket fence in – had been blessed by the man upstairs. Any supernatural baddie who tried to cross the property line would find themselves in a world of hurt, courtesy of a legion of angels. That was one reason – among many – why I'd chosen to leave Maggie in the care of the Carpenters.

Talk about a retirement package.

But I knew, just as she did, that the protection around their home had limits. There's more than one kind of monster, after all, and some of the most vicious I know are human. The property line might repel demons, devils, fallen angels and all manner of wicked creatures, but it wouldn't do jack against a burglar with a semi-automatic.

In spite of how often I play the odds, I'm not a gambling man. I take calculated risks. When there's a problem, I weigh the solutions and pick whichever one I think is best. Of course, you can't be a risk-taker without getting burned now and then. Sometimes, the cards just aren't in your favor.

It was a safe bet to assume that if Stanley Steamer was able to punch through Murphy's hundred-year-old threshold like wet tissue paper, he _might_ pose a threat to the Carpenters, even with a legion of angels watching over them.

"There are some enemies that faith can't defeat," I said, "And when they arrive, it's good to have friends at your back. Saber pulled us out of the frying pan. Calling it a close call would be an understatement. And whatever attack us is still out there. Believe me, she knows what she's doing. _"_

Charity nodded, and brushed a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I know. I just..."

She seemed to sag where she stood. Very rarely had I seen Charity vulnerable – even when she was nine months pregnant with little Harry and under attack my a malevolent spirit, she had a will of iron. But, if only for a moment, I saw something else in her eyes – fatigue. _Bone-deep_ fatigue.

"After everything that's happened the past couple days... with the shooting, and... Michael, your-"

"Charity," Michael murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist, "You should go back to bed. You've been up nearly the entire night."

Lord knows how much stress she'd been under in the past few days. Having your home torn apart, seeing your loved ones battered and bruised... it was never easy. Michael had been sidelined the other day by the gunshot, so I imagined that most of the work – rebuilding the home, patching up bullet wounds – had fallen to Charity. Her home, her sanctuary, had been destroyed. She'd been hurt, and had been forced to shoulder on without rest, because the people closest to her needed it.

I felt a pang of sympathy for her.

"Charity," I said, "I'm okay. You've done a great job. Go ahead and get some sleep – I'll keep an eye on Murphy, and Michael and I will look after the kids."

She looked like she wanted to argue with me, but at a look from Michael, she bit her lip and nodded. "...Okay. If you're sure."

I nodded. "Positive. If we need you, we won't hesitate to get you. Promise."

"Alright," Charity sighed, and turned slightly to plant a kiss on Michael's cheek before. Then, turning on her heel, she headed up the stairs.

"Harry," Michael said, as he watched his wife walk away, "I'll never tell you to stop what you're doing. More than anything, I wish I could join you. Just... be careful. Maggie needs her father."

Before I could respond, he followed Charity upstairs – probably to check on the kids. I watched his back as he left, feeling every single one of my thirty-eight years weighing down on me, along with a feeling of unease. Something was happening to Michael, something he wasn't telling me, and if it had Charity worried...

* * *

I heard the front door open and shut, and a cold draft blew crept through the kitchen. Clanking armor and metallic footfalls heralded the arrival of Saber, clad in the same armor she wore the night before. _Amoracchius,_ now large enough to be wielded with two hands, was strapped across her back by a strip of white cloth. She crossed her gauntleted arms over her chest and bowed her head.

"The perimeter is secure, Master," she said. Her eyes gave me a once-over. "You have recovered admirably."

"...Uh... thanks, Saber." I replied. She sounded pleased, but her expression was somewhat hard to read, and that was saying something.

As I watched, the armor she wore vanished, breaking apart into motes of blue light that seemed to evaporate into the air. Beneath the plate, she wore a royal blue dress with white trim and golden filigree, along with a pair of leather riding boots, the short heels adding a good inch to her height. It was an odd look, to be sure, reminding me of something I'd seen once at a renaissance festival – but, given her taste for swordplay, I suppose it was fitting.

"Master, there is much we need to discuss."

"...Coffee, first," I said, yawning. "We need coffee."

I invited her into the kitchen, and pulled out a seat. Saber glanced between me and the chair, appearing perplexed, but took it anyway. She watched silently as I rummaged through the Carpenter's kitchen cupboards for another mug, setting it in front of her. It was one of Molly's, emblazoned with the _Spattercon!_ logo.

As I poured her coffee, I heard another voice. "Dresden... What're you doing up?"

With a zombie-like gait, Murphy stumbled into the room. She pulled up a chair next to Saber, and all but collapsed into her seat, head bowed, eyes half-closed. Assuming I'd gotten six hours, and knowing her, I was reasonably sure she'd have been lucky to get three.

"Morning, Murphy," I said. Thankfully for her, I had the cure. I set a steaming hot cup of coffee down in front of her as well. I'd learned long ago that she took it black, no cream, no sugar. She mumbled her thanks – I'd never tell her, but she was cute when she was tired – and she sipped at it tentatively. A smile worked its way onto my lips.

That smile vanished when I remembered _why_ she looked so exhausted, _why_ her movements were so pained. I remembered Charity's words from moments before. I remembered my broken limbs, the pain and fear of certain death, the fear that Murphy and Maggie would be lost to me.

I couldn't do anything about what had happened that night – whatever changes I'd gone through, whatever had been affecting me, had already occurred, so there was no point in stressing over them – but I _could_ prepare for the future.

I pulled Bob's skull from the pocket of my tattered duster and placed it on the kitchen table.

"Bob, wake up," I said. Murphy was barely paying attention – she still wasn't entirely awake - but Saber's eyes flickered over to the skull, staring at it intently.

"What is it, Harry?" The skull opened its mouth in a parody of a yawn, its eyes flickering to life. "The sun's about to rise. I'm overdue for some rest..."

I spun the skull so that it faced Saber, and immediately, Bob's jaw creaked open. " _Oh._ "

"Yeah."

"...Wow. She's pretty. Good going, Harry. Couldn't settle on just one, could you?"

I sputtered. "Bob!"

For the first time, I saw some human emotion out of Saber. It was slight, but it was there – a slight downward tick of the lip, a narrowing of the eyes, a shift in her bearing, so that her hand was in a better position to grab the sword that was strapped between her shoulder blades.

"Bob," I sighed, "It's not like that. She may be able to shed some light on why we were attacked last night."

"And you'd like me, armed with my vast depth of arcane knowledge, for a consultation."

"Yeah, pretty much," I said.

"Well, given the present company, I supposed I could indulge your humble request."

I sighed, more out of relief than anything else. Bob was a friend of mine – sort of. Intellect spirits didn't really have souls, per se, although this one certainly acted like it. He was bound to serve whoever owned the skull he inhabited, which for the past twenty or so years had been me and mine. Bob tended to put up a fight whenever work was concerned, but for once, he'd decided to work without complaint. I was almost thankful for his obsession with women.

"But only if this lovely creature holds me, preferably between her breasts."

Yeah, that appreciation was suddenly replaced with the cold sting of heart-wrenching embarrassment. I thought he'd turned over a new leaf, only to be let down thunderously.

"Dammit, Bob." I scowled, slapping the top of his skull like it was a cheap alarm clock from Hot Topic. "Get your head out of the gutter."

"My head is on the table, thank you," retorted Bob, though at a sharp look from Saber he shut his trap.

The knight placed her mug down, the subtle _rap_ of ceramic on polished wood drawing our attention. It slapped the table like a judge's gavel, demanding silence - and attention.

"Since we are all gathered, I suppose I should begin," she said, her emerald eyes flashing.

Murphy sat up just a fraction straighter, some life returning to her eyes. I leaned in closer, too. It was so silent in the room that you could have heard a pin drop.

"You may call me Saber," she said. I imagined that if she were standing, she might have bowed. "I am your Servant in the Holy Grail War, summoned to battle your enemies."

"...The Holy Grail War," I said, testing the phrase on my tongue.

"Yes. Are you familiar with it?"

"Well, I'm familiar with the Grail, and I'm familiar with War."

"...Ah. I see. So my Master knows nothing, then." Saber furrowed her brow, and for a moment, she appeared almost... troubled.

"Absolutely _nothin'_. Say it again," I replied.

Saber blinked at me, and I felt, rather than saw, two pairs of eyes rolling in my direction.

"Harry, your humor is as classless as your taste in literature," Bob chided.

"That, coming from you, isn't saying much," Murphy retorted. She was as well aware of Bob's reading habits as I was, having visited my lab often and have spoken with Bob on a number of occasions.

Saber watched the byplay between us, her hard gaze settling on the skull. "Master is this a... familiar of yours?"

"Nah. He's not a familiar - he's a pain in the ass."

"Harry jests, of course. I am a spirit of _intellect_ , Miss Saber," Bob replied, eye-lights sparkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. "I have aided Harry and his allies in the past. And should you require any of the various _services_ I can provide, you need only to ask."

"Bob," I said, gritting my teeth.

"What?" Bob asked, feigning ignorance. "She's a spirit, and a proper lady. I'm just offering her-"

"I think I know very well what _services_ you're offering her," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose, "and they're not appropriate to talk about at the table. Or at the Carpenter's. Or... ever, now that I think about it."

"I'm simply one who loves appreciating the _finer_ things in life, Harry, like the company of a beautiful maiden. What's the expression you mortals seem so fond of - live a little _?_ "

"This coming from a talking skull-"

"-who was in far less danger of being turned into a _kebab_ last night, and who, without a body of is own, is _acutely_ aware of the benefits of living in the _moment_ , living for _himself_."

Saber, for her part, seemed unamused by Bob's antics. Her lip curled in distaste when her eyes settled on Bob, and her hand twitched ever-so-slightly. I wasn't too surprised – she acted every part the Paladin, like on gaming night with the Alphas, and the womanizing skull with glowing eyes didn't exactly give off an aura of Lawful Good.

"Master, with all due respect, we will have time for... revelry... when the battle is finished. But now that you are well, we have matters we must discuss."

She fixed Bob with a silent glare, as if daring him to open his mouth again. His jaw shut with an ominous _clack_.

"The Holy Grail War is a... contest of sorts," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Seven Servants – heroes of the past, given flesh by the Grail and sustained by the magic of seven chosen Masters – fight for possession of the Holy Grail, a magical artifact with power beyond comprehension."

"Uh. One second." I fished a notebook out of my backpack. Pockets – you can never have too many. I flipped to a fresh page and started filling it with shorthand notes, every wizarding detective's primary method of communication. Well, aside from the occasional fireball, anyway.

"What's a Servant?" Murphy asked, nursing her coffee between her palms.

"When the spirit of a hero – a pinnacle of humanity, someone of legend, who embodies the hopes and dreams of mankind – dies, they are given a choice. They may either pass on to their afterlife, or choose to spend eternity housed in the Throne of Heroes, to be called upon by the Grail when it is made manifest in the material plane."

"The... Throne of Heroes?" I asked. I raised an eyebrow, pausing in my note-taking.

"Imagine it as a world separate from, yet connected to the Grail."

"...Wait. How does that work?" I asked, frowning. "Is... is the Throne a realm in the Nevernever, maybe?"

Saber shrugged. "I am somewhat familiar with the workings of the Grail War, but in other areas, my knowledge is... limited. Essential knowledge, such as a grasp of modern language, is imparted to me by the Grail, and by your summons. Magical theory is not my area of expertise."

"That's quite alright, my lady. I'm well-versed on this topic," Bob replied. His eyes flickered brightly. "Yes, Harry, that is a reasonable assumption. The Grail is the ultimate symbol of glory, a promise that heroes across the world, throughout time, have died in pursuit of. It is no surprise the concept of a 'throne of heroes' would bear some connection to the Grail. That connection could serve as the basis of a Way. It could very well be that the Throne is a realm in the Nevernever directly connected to, and only to, the Grail."

"Alright," I said. I glanced back at Saber. "So how is it that I summoned you last night?"

Summoning magic is a tricksy business. Just like any magic you need energy and will, magic and intention. Last night, I'd put out enough magic to set my teeth chattering and fry my circuits, so I'd met one requirement. But I didn't intend to summon anything. At the time, my only thought was saving my our collective asses. I didn't even known her true name. So how -

"Heroes are summoned to the mortal plane by the power of mortals and the will of the Grail," responded Saber. She took a sip of coffee, and sighed contentedly. "The Grail is... unique."

"Wait. You're saying that the Grail has free will? That it's _alive_?"

"Not in the traditional sense," replied Saber, her sea-green eyes flickering to the sword at her hip and back. "It is... limited. It has only one will, which is that of a judge. As a manifestation of glory, of hope, it desires to be brought into the world. It desires to find a worthy user, and to be used."

"A self-aware magical artifact... searching for a user." I murmured. I flipped to the next page on my notepad, and started filling it with chicken scratch. "How does it do that? Find a 'worthy' user, I mean."

"When the grail manifests, it is said to 'choose' Masters, people who would have the most use for the Grail, people who would be the most aided by possessing it. Each Master, once chosen, is able to summon a heroic spirit from the Throne, in order to do battle to prove their conviction, their... strength, if you will." Saber explained, making a fist. "These heroic spirits who are summoned to participate in the Grail War are known as 'Servants'."

"And you're one of them."

Saber nodded.

"Okay. Uh. What makes a 'Servant' a 'Servant'? Aside from that 'heroic spirit' bit." Murphy asked, propping her head on her chin.

"That is dependent on the Servant," replied Saber, taking a moment to sip from her cup. The motion was controlled, pristine. "The power of a Servant is based in reality and augmented by lore. Servants are those of legend who have defied the odds, done great deeds, conquered the world and torn it asunder."

They say that non-verbal communication – tone, posture, and mannerisms – are seventy percent of all communication. And as a detective, reading body language is something second-nature to me.

Call me paranoid, but I'd had allies save me only to turn on me moments later. An easy and recent example was Hannah Ascher, down in Hades' Vault Seven, who'd turned out to be a pawn of Nicodemus, and tried to use her fire magic to roast me like a kebab. So, from the time I'd sat down at the table, I'd started reading Saber. She had far too much power, and though she hadn't harmed me so far, though she'd acted trustworthy... well, I'd been wrong in the past. The fact that she was beautiful only raised my paranoia further.

Her motions seemed... not mechanical, but... lacking in pride. For a night in shining armor, wielding _Amoracchius_ with as much ease as she did, as confident as she was on the battlefield, here, she seemed... reserved. Quiet. And at the mention of 'great deeds', she slouched, ever-so-slightly. If I hadn't been looking for it, I wouldn't have seen it.

She recovered, and the momentary weakness was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Their power reflects this," Saber continued. "Servants can be likened to forces of nature, capable of besting minor gods in combat, with weapons and abilities beyond any mortal's ability to attain or replicate. Most wizards in today's era would be completely decimated by even the weakest Servant. Some are magic-resistant, or possess magic thought long-lost that enables them to perform great feats."

"Wait," I said, suddenly having a moment of clarity. "That thing that attacked us last night. That was another Servant, wasn't it?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes, Master," she said. "That was the Mad Servant, Berserker."

"...And just how many Servants are summoned during the Grail War?"

"Seven. They are as follows: Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Berserker, and Assassin."

I sat back in my seat, stunned. Murphy, to my right, looked a little pale.

"Stars and stones," I murmured. Not counting Berserker, there were _five more_ of those things? In _Chicago_?

"Are they all... like that?" I asked.

"Each servant class has different strengths and weaknesses," Saber replied. Her gaze darkened slightly. I found my eyes drawn to hers – but I glanced away sharply. "If by 'like that', you mean immensely powerful, than yes. Heroic Spirits are often stronger in death than they are in life, as they are shaped by their legends. The older and more influential the legend, consequentially, the more powerful a Servant becomes."

"Oh." I knew that the servant from the night before – _Berserker, his muscles heaving that wicked spear that oozed bloodlust, giving me a smile with teeth that were far too pointed for my liking_ – was toying with me, but... I had no idea how true my observation was.

"So, Berserker was the one who attacked Murphy and I last night. But, like you said, he's mad as a hatter. And yet, he's a Servant, which implies that he has a Master."

"...Yes." Saber responded. "It is as you say."

I chewed my lip, spinning the pen lazily between my fingers.

"How? How does anyone control something that powerful? What's stopping Berserker from just killing his Master and becoming the next Sith Lord?"

Slaying a god is no joke, and any being strong enough to do so is no pushover. Flat out, there's no way that a single wizard would be strong enough to take control of a Servant unassisted. That felt especially true in the case of Berserker, who by nature was... well, mad. Those afflicted with the curse of madness aren't good at things like people skills and rational thought. Berserker had acted like a bloodthirsty dog.

He hadn't said a word – I didn't even know if his vocabulary extended beyond angry screams. In many ways, he reminded me of a hangry Rosie o'Donnell. That, or he didn't watch School House Rock as a kid. I'm not sure which was worse.

"Each Master is marked by Command Seals on their wrist."

I brought up my wrist for inspection. It was still wrapped in a cocoon of bandages from just over a day before. I thought the cut had been caused by _shrapnel_. The bandages unraveled at my touch.

"You have three Command Seals which can be used to deliver an absolute order that must be obeyed. Command Seals also grant incredible power, enabling a servant to fight beyond their already considerable abilities," Saber said. Her voice sounded disinterested – like she was was discussing the weather.

I paused.

"For example," she continued, "you could tell me to 'strike with all my power', and all of my power would be channeled into a single blow. By commanding me to 'come to your aid', the Command Seal would transport me to your location instantaneously."

I stared at the red lines criss-crossing the pale flesh of my hand, at the bloody sword seared into my flesh.

"Saber, that's great," I said tersely, "but what, exactly, do you mean by an 'absolute order?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

"It is as it sounds. You could give an order that I would have to obey," Saber replied. She smoothed out the front of her dress, bowing her head, blonde locks falling over her eyes.

"...Even if you didn't want to?"

"...Yes."

"And if I ordered you to kill innocent people? Or yourself?" I heard Murphy inhale sharply. _Now_ she understood my concern.

Saber stiffened. It was a subtle thing, but it was there. She sat up just a fraction straighter, and her gaze hardened.

"You could command me to stain my blade with the blood of innocents, just as you could order me to kill myself, and I would be forced to obey that command."

Her eyes narrowed. She leaned forward. And then, she fixed me with a glare that could punch through concrete.

For a moment I'd forgotten that she was a knight – without the armor, she looked just like any other mortal. All her talk of heroes and epic battles aside, she didn't appear any different. Perhaps it was the fact that she looked so much like Murphy that made me see in her in that light.

That moment had passed, and once again, I could see it – I could see her power, her grit. She claimed to be a hero of legend. With her teeth bared, with magic coursing beneath her skin like lightning, with her furious gaze drilling into me, the girl had disappeared, and the knight had risen in her place.

"But there is something you must understand. When they are consumed, I am free of your control. And though I may be ordered to commit suicide, as you have no doubt seen, it is not so easy to kill a Servant. I will not tolerate dishonor."

"That won't be an issue," I said, holding out my hand. "I want these off. Now."

Saber recoiled, as though struck. She grit her teeth, and clenched her hands into fists on the hem of her dress.

"...Have you no interest in acquiring the Grail?" She asked in a harsh whisper.

"I have no interest in using magic to control other people. That's _black magic_. That's what separates wizards from the monsters we _fight_." I scowled, crossing my arms over my chest. There was no way she'd get me to budge on that. I expected an argument - but not the one she gave me.

"I'm not a person, not in the way you are thinking," replied Saber, shaking her head, "and you shouldn't think of me like one."

She said it like she was discussing the weather. And, yeah, maybe I'm a little sexist. But hearing a woman say anything like that... it felt like a blow to the gut.

Perhaps it was because I'd seen so many people trampled and used in the pursuit of power. The way spoke invoked a very vivid memory – a memory of the first time I'd met Monica Sells.

The first time I'd spoken to her, all of those years ago, I hadn't understood. I hadn't realized just how much she'd endured, how much she'd sacrificed. She'd resigned herself to a life of hell for the sake of her kids, with her husband cheating on her, beating her, and later trying to kill her with black magic.

In doing the right thing she'd given up something of her own. Monica had given up her hopes, her dreams. She'd been battered, bruised, and beaten. She had kept her kids safe and happy, yeah – but at the cost of her own happiness, at the cost of her own future. Her life had been cruelly torn apart in the worst way, as she'd been forced to leverage her future for those of her children.

"I am a tool for your use in the war," she continued. The sight of her – her royal bearing, hands folded neatly in her lap, wearing that blue dress of hers - suddenly made me want to gag. A fire rose in my chest, and at the word 'tool', I felt my chest tighten.

I thought of Susan. I thought of how she'd been used as a pawn in a mad gambit by Martin and the Fellowship of Saint Giles in order to wipe out the Red Court. I thought of how she'd sacrificed her life to save Maggie and me. I thought of the knife, the leather grip hot and sticky in my hand, as I drove it into her heart, ending her life. She'd been used as a tool, hadn't she? A mother, a lover, a woman, betrayed by her allies and treat as a-

"-a weapon which you may use to cut down your enemies."

"Bullshit," I snarled, cutting her off, my voice hot.

Silence met my words. I noticed that my fingers were were gripping my coffee mug so hard, my knuckles were going white. If I gripped the mug any harder, I'd have shattered it. Murphy was eyeing me, her gaze somewhat concerned – I couldn't meet her eyes.

Saber, on the other hand, had her shoulders set, her mouth drawn into a hard line. It appeared I wasn't the only one who had a temper.

I knew why I was angry – but it wasn't something I could put into words.

"There are lines that shouldn't be crossed," I said, forcing my hand to relax. "This is one of them. Messing about with free will, having power over another person's soul, is wrong. How do I remove these?"

Saber sat straighter in her chair. "Master," she replied, slight heat in her voice, "The Command Seals connect the two of us, and allow you to provide me with magic. If you remove them..."

My mouth went dry.

"...What you're saying is, either I _enslave_ you, or... you _die_?"

"I died a long time ago," replied Saber stoically, "and my participation in this conflict is willing. Fate has placed us together as Master and Servant."

"This is messed up," murmured Murphy, looking every bit as uneasy as I felt. I kneaded my wrist in my hand, working my thumb across the grooves that were carved into my pale flesh. Yet again, I found myself in the unusual position of not knowing what to say.

Thankfully, Murphy did. She leaned back in her chair, one arm thrown lazily over the back, and eyed the blond knight speculatively.

"Saber," she murmured, "you mentioned that heroes are given a choice, whether or not to join the Throne. And you've said you're... you're willing to put yourself through all of this – giving a total stranger not one but three absolute commands over you, giving up your chance at a peaceful afterlife. Why?"

Saber looked down at her hands, and when she spoke, her tone was heavy.

"The magic of the Grail is based upon faith. It is a power that transcends all others, a power from the earliest days of mankind. It absorbs and channels energy. I know very little of the workings of magic, but I can say this much – the Grail abides by its own set of rules, and the nature and scope of its power make the impossible possible."

Murphy leaned forward in her seat, eyes widening in surprise. "...Wait. You're saying that the nature of the Grail, the reason that people war over it, is..."

"When the Grail is manifested, it possesses the power to grant any wish," Saber replied.

I nearly spat out my coffee.

Murphy didn't take the news much better, either.

"Well... now we know _why_ Nick wanted the grail," she snarled, "three months too late."

She cursed and wove her hands through her hair, her ponytail coming undone in an instant. If I had a decent amount of hair to pull on, I'd probably have done the same. My heart pounding in my chest, struck with equal parts horror and fury, I surged to my feet, knocking my chair back. I struck the kitchen table with an clenched fist.

"If the War's started, you can bet that Nick found some way to get himself involved. We can't let him win," I hissed, stalking back and forth across the kitchen."There's no telling what hell he'd unleash on earth if he did."

At Saber's confused look, Murphy spoke up.

"Nicodemus. Crazy asshole, possessed by a Fallen Angel, leader of a _group_ of Fallen Angels bent on world destruction. He killed his own daughter, and tried to off the Carpenters, kids and all, by sending a hit squad _here,_ to their home, in the middle of the night _._ And when he wasn't successful, he..." Murphy rapped her bum leg angrily, which was now protected by a steel medical brace, courtesy of Charity. Her tone had as much venom in it as any pit viper's would.

"To call him dangerous would be an understatement." I added, gritting my teeth. I found myself staring out of the Carpenter's rear sliding door, watching snow fall on the deck. Given the overwhelming darkness, I couldn't see more than a few feet beyond the glass. "Throw a Servant and the power of the Holy Grail into the equation, and..."

I trailed off. I had no idea what his endgame was – but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he _had_ one.

"...So you will fight in this War, then?" Saber asked, quietly.

"This isn't a fight we can walk away from," I responded tersely. I imagined Nicodemus, smiling eerily, his blade stained red with the blood of who knows how many victims, lurking in the dusk.

"If he wins," I said, watching as the first rays of sunshine began creeping over the horizon, "we all lose."


	14. Chapter 14

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Another Huge Chapter]:** Lots of dialogue and character interaction! More little things explained. There are a number of topics that this chapter touches on. I wrote it as a second sort-of-explanation chapter. There are a number of readers who enjoy Dresden Files but have never heard of Fate / Stay Night, and visce-versa.

There is no Supervisor in this war. There wouldn't be, since the Clock Tower, the Nasuverse Church, and their affiliate groups don't exist in the Dresdenverse. However, there's a lot of incentive not to fight during the daytime - as is explained in this chapter. Additionally, Fate fans may not be familiar with the concept of True Names, so hopefully this chapter will clear up why Saber was not forthcoming about her identity, and why Harry didn't ask her for it in the previous chapter.

Trying to cram a lot in here, I hope it meets your expectations! This chapter's focused on information and character development. Dresden fans will be pleased to note that they'll get a little more insight into Saber's character... and how other characters respond to her presence.

This is basically like three mini-chapters in one. Holy wah. Trying to figure out how to write this chapter was so difficult at first. At the time, I thought I needed divine intervention to work through it. It was only then I realized - who needs prayer when you have caffeine?

 **[Reviews]:** Once again, thank you for all the support and constructive criticism! A special thanks to **Lok** , **The Thermophage** , and **Jouaint** for their support and insight. Keep it up, let me know what you think! I love getting feedback from you guys.

* * *

"Harry," she said, "I'm leaving."

Murphy'd cleaned up since the night before. There were still bags under her eyes, and she looked a little worse for wear, but coffee and a hot shower had done her wonders. She also had a fresh set of clothes on, courtesy of Charity. A flannel shirt and a slightly-too-large pair of jeans kept her modesty, and a thick winter coat kept her warm.

She was leaning against the front door, slightly favoring her bum knee, her mouth set in a hard line. I knew what she was thinking – she was expecting me to fight her.

But, no. I figured she'd want to head out in the daylight. It was the smart decision.

Someone needed to run back home, after all.

In the aftermath of Berserker's attack, most of Murphy's place had been destroyed. The kitchen had been blown to hell, along with the foyer, and the explosions had punched a hole from the first floor clean through the roof. Part of the building's foundation had been dislodged, and several supporting struts in the home had been cleaved through during the fighting.

To be blunt, the place wasn't livable – or safe - anymore.

There were a number of things still inside her home that needed to be recovered. Firearms, mostly, along with clothing, alchemy ingredients, and a reserve stash of diamonds.

But if that were the only reason to return there, I would've been the one doing it. I would have insisted that she sit the trip out.

No. She wasn't going for the goods – she was going was _closure_. She wanted to face her destroyed home and come to grips with what she'd lost. She'd live in that home for nearly two decades – it was a sacred place, a gift to her from her grandmother, who was probably the only member of Murphy's family that she didn't outright hate. I didn't know the woman but Murphy spoke fondly of her, mentioning stories by the fire and late nights filled with whiskey and laughter.

It was her _home,_ and it had been ripped from her, taken away in an instant. She'd made the sacrifice willingly, but that didn't make the pain any less real. It was something she needed to deal with, in her own way.

Still, that didn't mean I had to like it.

"Murph, you're not really in a condition to be going anywhere," I murmured. She raised an eyebrow.

"Look who's talking. Has that ever stopped either one of us? I'm a big girl, Dresden. I don't need a babysitter."

I opened my mouth to protest – and sighed, shoving my hands in my pockets. Yeah, I couldn't really argue with her. I didn't have it in me.

"Are you sure you don't want company?" I asked quietly. "I'd like to be there with you."

Murphy's grin turned brittle, and she glanced down at my feet.

"...No. This is something I need to do," she said, in barely a whisper.

"Besides," she continued, "You got it worse than I did last night, and someone has to hold down the fort. When we arrived, we woke Maggie up, and... it wasn't pretty. I'm no parent. Little squirt needs her daddy."

I sighed, and leaned against the door next to her. Cold air breezed through the cracks – the door might have been replaced but the frame had been slightly damaged.

"Murph," I said, putting my hands into my duster pockets, "I know that you're used to doing things by yourself."

Murphy looked up at me, her expression giving nothing away. Hell's bells, I was never really good at this kind of thing.

"Look, I just want to be there, if you need me. However you need me." I said. I glanced away for a quick minute, and exhaled slowly. "What you're going through right now can't be easy. And I don't mind helping you carry that burden. That's what people who care about each other _do_. I care about you a hell of a lot. So..."

Murphy slipped her hand into my duster pocket, and wove her fingers through mine.

"Thanks, tiger," she murmured. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against my shoulder.

Murphy was never the sort for, as she put it, 'sappy bullshit'. She was forever a patron of playing hard ball. It was what she'd been raised to do, what she'd been trained to do, a mindset that had carried her through her law enforcement career. She didn't let her emotions get the better of her, period – and in many ways she'd become jaded about relationships, given that her past two had ended in divorce.

I was one of few people she was comfortable opening up with. Though our friendship was occasionally strained, we'd been friends for a lifetime. Recent events had changed that relationship – deepened it. I wasn't sure when, exactly, I'd started looking at Murphy the way I saw her now, with those beautiful baby blues and hair that shone like a sunrise. I wasn't sure when she'd started becoming interested in me, either.

I still didn't know what she saw in me – honestly, I've done some pretty terrible things in the past, and by all accounts, I can be a _royal_ asshole. Regardless, we'd fallen in together, and life had been great. I'd found a little slice of happiness, and she'd found the same.

For the most part.

Murphy'd been a little strange about 'us', whatever 'we' were. She didn't give it a name, and I didn't push her anywhere she didn't want to go.

I imagine that her previous divorces had a lot to do with it – she must have been worried about losing me, tainting the relationship we already had, or maybe just connecting with other people in general. She'd been burned more than once, and those burns had yet to heal. Either way, she occasionally pulled away, cutting herself off, especially when she was worried. She never complained, never questioned, never admitted when she felt out of her depth – much like me - and it was a little unnerving at times.

I hadn't asked her to change. I knew her well enough to know that change wasn't something I could force. I just let her know that I understood, let her know that I'd be there if and when she needed me.

The way she smiled at me in that moment, even with those tired eyes of hers, made everything worth it.

And then she glanced over my shoulder, at something in the distance, and her expression changed.

I followed her gaze.

Saber was sitting at the table, _Amoracchius_ cradled in her arms like a suckling child. In one hand she held a whetstone – probably one of Charity's – and was taking it to the blade, fining its edge to a razor finish. Every motion she made was controlled and effortlessly graceful. It was like watching one of those Japanese tea ceremonies, where the participants turn some simple task into an art form through years of practice.

As I watched, Maggie approached Saber from behind, shyly at first, like a rabbit afraid of its own shadow, her hands wrapped tightly around Mouse like he was an over-sized security blanket. Inch by inch, she and Mouse crept closer, until they stood beside Saber's chair.

Saber glanced down at Maggie, considering her for a moment. Maggie said something – I couldn't make it out – and in response, Saber pulled out a seat at the table. Saber returned to her work, diligent as ever, but I saw the hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Huh.

"I should get going," Murphy said, brushing a loose strand of hair over her ear. "Sanya's waiting on me. My cell's on the counter in case Stallings calls."

Her attitude seemed a little... off. She wouldn't meet my eyes. It seemed she was having one of those moments again.

So, did the only thing I could do. I opened the door and held it for her, giving her an easy smile.

"Alright. Be safe, okay? I'll see you tonight."

She nodded and walked past me, her shoulders set. I stared out after her, watching as she walked down the narrow driveway, trudging through the snow with a somewhat steady gate. After a quick glance back to me, she hopped into the passenger seat of the U-Haul we'd rented.

As I watched the truck depart, an uneasy feeling burrowed into my gut. Had I made the wrong decision to let her go? Should I have gone with her? Was something going on that she wasn't telling me about? I ran a hand through my hair and sighed bitterly, my mind occupied with dark thoughts, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Still, the cold crept in.

* * *

I walked back into the kitchen, and made for another cup of coffee, trying very hard not eavesdrop on Saber and Maggie. For whatever reason, just being in the kitchen made me feel like I was intruding on something private, something pure... and after talking with Murphy, and seeing her off, I wasn't feeling particularly social. I wanted – needed – to be left alone, so that I could sort out my thoughts.

And yet, when they spoke – my daughter, and the knight – I found myself drawn towards them, like a moth to flame. It was almost like Saber's words held... compulsion. Like they actively sought to be heard. I wouldn't understand the concept of _B-Rank Charisma_ until much later, but you don't have to understand something to be affected by it. I found myself, despite my misgivings, listening in.

"...Being a knight. What's it like? Michael never complains about _anything_ , but even _he_ says it's a lot of work." Maggie said. She was leaning forward in her chair, her tiny legs swinging back and forth beneath the seat.

"Michael is a very wise man." Saber replied. She set her whetstone aside, and took up her sword, inspecting its edge in the light.

"Knighthood is the path of the sword," she continued, consumed by her work. "The will of a knight must be unbending, made of the strongest steel. And yet, this strength is tempered by virtue – by chivalry. Just as the sword is held in the hands of man, a knight is a weapon wielded by her people, guiding them through times of great strife."

Maggie opened her mouth in a little 'oh', and nodded excitedly. I thought Saber was done talking, but after a moment, she held out her blade before Maggie.

"A knight must be a symbol to those who support her. And that carries with it a great weight – a great responsibility. Sometimes, one must sacrifice of themselves in order to preserve the lives of others, and must make the hard choices to lead their people. A knight does her duty, not for personal gain or happiness, but because her duty is just and right."

At her words, the blade seemed to chime faintly. The steel glowed just a fraction brighter, and the blade's edge glistened. I felt the air hum gently with the power of faith – giving off a distinct sense of... approval?

When Saber had started speaking, Maggie's eyes hadn't left the sword. She'd been eyeing it like a kid in a candy store. But as Saber continued, Maggie stilled, shying away from the golden blade, like she was worried it would nip at her hand.

"That seems... kind of sad. Hard, too," Maggie murmured. She brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Is that really what being a knight is like?"

"...It can be," Saber replied, nodding. She withdrew the sword, and ran a slim hand along its length. "And that is why we train our bodies and minds for the road ahead. A lack of preparation is the enemy."

"That's what Dad says," replied Maggie.

"Oh?" Saber raised a delicate eyebrow, and glanced in my direction. I gave her a discrete nod over the steaming cup of coffee in my hands.

"Mmhmm. He says that bad things go bump in the dark, like vampires, and ghosts, and trolls, and other monsters, and that he prep... prepares, so I don't have to."

Saber hummed thoughtfully. "He sounds like a very caring father... and a very busy one, too."

"He's the best. He reads me stories and cooks food sometimes. But, yeah, I don't see him too much - Dad and Karrin are always out beating up bad guys." Maggie sniffed. "I wish they'd take me too. Mouse and I can help!"

"I don't know about that," murmured Saber. "You're a little young for the battlefield..."

At Maggie's crestfallen look, her expression softened.

"...But with enough time, and hard work, anything is possible."

"...You think so?" Maggie asked, bashfully ducking her head.

"Of course," Saber said, as if it were already decided. "If you work hard enough, you will become a great knight one day. I am sure of it."

* * *

"Who were you?"

Saber raised an eyebrow.

"Before you died."

"The same person I am now," she replied. I wasn't sure if that was her attempt at humor, or if she was just taking the opportunity to criticize me for asking a dumb question. She wouldn't be the first.

Maggie had gone back to bed. Evidently, she'd been up pretty late, and had only gotten up after I'd smacked the living room table. I wasn't sure when she'd begun to associate the sound of things breaking with me coming home – and I wasn't sure how I should feel about it – but either way, I'd been glad to see her. Still, she needed her rest, and I wasn't about to deny her the chance to get some good shut-eye.

That left Saber and I, alone, in the kitchen. And, naturally, I wanted to talk with her a little more, to get to know her better, since we were contracted together for the near future.

"Letting Karrin go was the wise decision," stated Saber. She glanced out the kitchen window, and into the broad daylight. "It is unwise for the two of us to be separated, and leaving her here without assistance would not have been advisable, given that she's unarmed and in worse shape than you seem to be. The Carpenters would be completely defenseless."

"Are you sure she'll be okay?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest. "Berserker isn't going to attack her while my back is turned, is he?"

"He couldn't," replied Saber. She took a sip of her coffee, and glanced pointedly out the kitchen window. "Daylight."

"...Ah." I murmured, snapping my fingers.

Long before science came along and explained away how the tides worked, how the moon hung in the night sky, and why rain fell, people believed natural forces were the work of Gods. People still do believe that. And, as with all belief, magic is the result.

Forces of nature have interesting properties, magically speaking, and daylight is one such force of nature.

The night plays home to scary things. To the dead, and to the undead. There is no fear more primal than fear of the dark – and so in the nighttime, when our eyes are blinded and every sound sends shivers down our spines, creatures of the night are free to roam.

But, come dawn, the sun banishes the darkness. Dawn is a time of new beginnings, of slates wiped clean, of second chances.

As a result, sunlight tends to weaken ambient magic. It's also the ultimate bane of the undead - including spirits, zombies, and some breeds of vampire. Bob, having just passed out in his skull, was evidence of that. If he didn't have the protection of the skull, if he were outside of the Carpenter's threshold and exposed to sunlight, he would have been incinerated on the spot, his essence boiling away like grease in a deep fryer.

"You said you're a Heroic Spirit, given flesh and blood by the Grail. But at the end of the day, you're still a Spirit. The body you have is a magical construct, like a... golem."

"Yes."

"Sunlight hurts you."

"No. Well, not exactly," She said, frowning. "Sunlight... it interferes with my ability to draw magic from you. My armor becomes more of a burden to maintain. My limbs respond more slowly, and my speed and strength are diminished. Certain abilities that I possess are... inaccessible. I'm still able to fight, should the need arise, but not on a level that would exceed an exceptionally skilled mortal."

"And you've got at least token magic resistance, given that you're a Servant," I finished. I glanced at her sideways. "So, given how you're affected, there's a good chance that the other Servants are in the same boat."

"Leaving them ill-suited for combat during the day," finished Saber. "And based on what Karrin told me of Sanya, your friend should prove a capable guardian."

Her solemn expression twitched, and for a moment, it looked like she might have been contemplating smiling. "It seems you are not so unprepared for this War as you may believe."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounded suspiciously like a compliment."

"Suspicion begets mistrust. A lack of cohesion is the enemy." Saber stated. She brought a hand to her breast and closed her eyes. "That is because it was a compliment. Rather, it was a statement of my faith in your ability. Regardless of your... misgivings about our current situation, I see in you the makings of an exceptional Master."

I'm fully used to beautiful women trying to kill me at nearly every turn, with the exception of Murphy. Being complimented by Saber, a woman who I was now convinced _wasn't_ actively trying to end my life – the morning light catching the gentle curve of her throat, her eyes flashing like emeralds – flustered me, if only a little.

But as soon as the word 'Master' left her lips, the feeling soured, and I resisted the urge to start scratching at my wrist.

I _hated_ that word.

I could have said any number of things. The temptation to curse was pretty high on the list, but I scrapped that idea. For the first time since we'd met, she seemed to be in good spirits. It'd be a bad idea to crush that. Instead, I banished the thought from my mind, and tried to continue on.

"Thank you," I said, "for saving Murphy and me."

Saber tilted her head to the side.

Pride is my cardinal sin. I don't like admitting when I'm out of my depth, and it takes being stranded in the middle of an ocean before I'm willing to consider it. That was something Michael had always told me - that I had an arrogant streak that needed correcting. And with Sarissa and Fix fresh on my mind, after giving them the short end of the stick and kicking them to the curb with a steel-toed boot, I was trying really hard not to repeat that mistake.

"Thanks is not needed," Saber replied. Her eyes dipped to my wrist, and the Command Seals woven like red ribbons into my flesh. "Protecting one's Master is the duty of any Servant."

There it was. _Again_.

"Yeah, well. Thanks anyway." I stammered. "For a little while there I felt like a tootsie pop after lick three."

Saber blinked, and stared at me like I'd grown a third head.

"...Han Solo, about enjoy to a steaming Carbonite bath?"

Saber pursed her lips. Wait - I was talking to a knight from another era. She might have had knowledge given to her by the Grail, but I doubted pop culture references were deemed 'necessary for the war'. I probably sounded like I was speaking another language entirely.

"...I thought I was going to take a long nap, six feet under," I said. Saying it out loud like that made me feel... odd. It made the events of the last night, so much like the opening plot of a bad fantasy novel, feel that much more _real_. The only time I'd come closer to death was when I'd hired Kincaid to kill me some years back.

No matter what anyone tells you, death is a scary thing. Everyone's afraid of it, on some level, even if they won't admit it. It's the ultimate end to a journey we've spent our entire existence taking. For humans, who have never known anything else, that journey is all we have. Staring Death in the face makes that journey all the more precious, all the more valuable. That's something any person will tell you.

But... not me. Strangely enough, I was calm about the whole affair. Maybe it was just the shock of it, the shock of being saved and returning to a somewhat normal life the next day.

I wasn't worried about my own mortality. Not really. All I could think about was Murphy's.

Berserker completely outclassed me in pretty much every way, and I knew it. When he'd struck had no weapons that could have hurt him, no magic that would have evened the playing field. I threw every tool in my toolbox at him, and he took them with a smile.

But, even so. Seeing Murphy so vulnerable – feeling her weight beneath me, hearing her breath hitch as the mad Servant thrust his spear at us – it didn't fill me with fear. No – I felt... _guilty_. I should have been more prepared, had strong countermeasures in place, should have been more cautious. Maybe then -

"-ster?" Saber asked, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice, strangely enough, sounded concerned. "Are you alright?"

As the haze of anger that had gripped me vanished, I realized that my grip had gone knuckle-white on my mug, the coffee in it had been frozen solid, and the temperature in the room had dropped by a couple degrees.

I swallowed the curse that came to my lips. With an effort of Will, I shut the mantle down, burying its power deep within me. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Just peachy."

Saber eyed me strangely – I didn't know what she must be thinking, and I didn't want to know, either.

"On another note, Saber," I said, breaking the silence, "The name you gave Murphy and I – that's the name of your Class, right, not your real name."

Saber nodded. "Yes."

I wasn't offended, or surprised, that she hadn't shared her name – it was something I almost expected, nowadays. As the saying goes, "everybody lies." It's the nature of the game. In my line of work, secrets are like currency. Everyone's got secrets, and some are worth more than others. As a detective, my job is to find those secrets – and when they can't be found, to work without them.

"Why call yourself your Class?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why not just tell us your name?"

"I'm sure that you, as a wizard, can appreciate the power of knowing another's True Name," Saber replied.

She had a good point. If she had given me her name, there was a chance it could have been overheard by another Master in the War. Murphy's threshold had been breached and the house had been smashed, so it wasn't secure at the time. I also knew for a fact that Anduriel, Nicodemus' personal Fallen Angel, was a Spymaster who liked to listen in to people's conversations through their shadows. I was willing to bet my bottom dollar that he'd be spying on me whenever he got the chance, considering I was one of his greatest enemies, and was one of a few people that were gunning for the Grail.

Knowing Saber's identity would also give him an edge in the War. Saber, being a heroic spirit, was probably someone famous. I couldn't think of any female swordsmen from medieval lore – maybe Joan of Arc? - but still. If Nicodemus, or anyone else for that matter, found out Saber's identity... they could use it against her. They could research her lore and uncover her weaknesses, physical or psychological, and use them against her.

And that wasn't even half the problem. A person's True Name can be used against them in all sorts of rituals. It's like an access card to their soul. Combine that with a little hair or blood, and you have a black magic field day. Plenty of wizards would _kill_ to get their hands on the True Name of a Servant. If Saber's name were uncovered, whether or not our bond was created by the Grail, there was a chance that someone sufficiently skilled could tamper with her.

Still, that didn't explain why she wouldn't tell me her name. I already had Command Seals on my wrist – and had control over her, body and soul, whether or not I wanted it.

In addition, it was true that Murphy's place wasn't secure, but the only enemies at the Carpenter's were an empty fridge and a handful of leaky pipes. Their home really _was_ protected by the Holy Ghost. Aside from the Vatican, it was probably one of the safest places on earth when hiding from the supernatural. There was no way Nicodemus – or any other wizard - would be able to listen in to our conversations.

"...And yet, here we are." I said, shrugging. "Safe, sound, and I still don't know your name."

"Ah. Yes. I suppose I should remedy that."

And _there_ it was. The reason why I became so frustrated earlier. She hadn't said it explicitly, but I was beginning to understand the bigger picture of what made Saber tick – and I didn't like it.

I switched gears. Screw patience - I was going to nip that mentality of hers in the bud, before she got comfortable with it.

"...Do you want to?" I asked, my voice calm, although I knew the answer before it left her lips.

"That is irrelevant."

"Why?"

She tilted her head to the side, and gave me that same look she had earlier. This time, though, I wasn't phased.

"Humor me," I said, gesturing vaguely with my hand.

"I should tell you regardless of my feelings on the issue. You are my Master, after all, and knowing my identity allow you to use me more effectively during the war." she replied, resting a hand on the grip of _Amoracchius_.

Hell's bells, I _really_ hated that title.

Abruptly, a plan occurred to me. A way to show her how I felt. Before my mind had finished processing what I was going to do, my body was already in motion. I pushed out my chair and stood, leaving my mug behind, and approached the knight, my hands in my pockets.

"Saber," I said. "Get up."

Saber blinked.

"Up," I said. I nudged her chair with a toe.

She did so, just as I had done moments before.

"Stand there," I said, thumbing in the direction of the sliding door. It was easily as tall as I was, and made of glass. The edges were frosted by the bitterly cold winds outside, but I could still see through it.

"Master, I don't understand," she said, giving me a slightly confused look. Despite her protests, though, she walked over to the door. I walked up next to her, and leaned against the door frame.

"What do you see?" I asked, gesturing through the glass, towards the snow-glazed grass of the Carpenter's backyard.

"...A small clearing. Roughly eighty meters in width, twenty in length, surrounded by a white picket fence. The terrain is blanketed with frost, making for unfavorable footing," replied Saber, her eyes flickering along the property line. I felt my eye twitch.

"A tree is located towards the rear of the property, and a wooden structure is nestled within its branches. However, the structure is too close to the home and too low to the ground to serve as a sniper's roost. Additionally, the fence provides concealment but not cover. My analysis is that fighting on this terrain would be ill-advised."

"Keep looking," I said, trying poorly to hide my impatience. I gestured again to the backyard. "What do you see?"

Saber furrowed her brow for a moment, and then said, "It's snowing."

"Go on," I said, folding my arms over my chest.

"...The snow has fallen in a fine powder. In the distance, I can see footprints... four sets... leading to a ladder at the base of the tree."

I sighed quietly.

"The kids," I murmured, looking out over the yard. "The kids love playing in that tree house, even in the winter. Michael built it himself, you know, like most of the furniture here. He's really good with his hands, and lives to dote on his kids. It's no coincidence that his last name's Carpenter."

As I spoke, her eyes danced along the tree house, drinking in its precise edges, lacquered wood, and freshly-painted awning, covered by a thin layer of snow.

"See that?" I asked, pointing to a thin shape that dangled from the awning.

"Yes."

"That's a bird feeder. In the warmer months, it'll be buzzing with all sorts of critters, from birds to the occasional squirrel crafty enough to reach it. If you're inside the tree house, and you're quiet enough, they won't notice you. Molly, my old apprentice, used to spend summer nights up there when she was a kid."

Something changed in Saber's expression. Her gaze softened a little. Her lips twitched into what might have been a smile, but I didn't look too closely. It was the same look she'd had when she was talking to my daughter, not so long ago.

"That sounds... pleasant," she said, after a long pause.

I pushed aside the sliding door and walked outside, trudging ankle deep into the snow. The Winter Mantle allowed me to passively resist the effects of cold, so even barefoot, it wasn't much trouble. Saber's eyes followed me as I crouched on the deck.

Saber's reflexes, her speed, had been dulled by the daylight, and since her view was obscured by my duster, I also had the element of surprise on my side. So when a snowball the size of a fist flew at her, gunning for her face, she couldn't sidestep it.

The knight let out an undignified _yelp_ as the snowball found its mark. She sputtered and wiped the snow away, her cheeks flushed – from the rage, and from the ice-cold water that was dripping down the front of her dress.

"What," she challenged, glaring daggers at me, "was _that_ for?"

I calmly walked back inside and closed the sliding door with a soft click.

Then I looked down at her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

When I touched her, my fingertips tingled – static discharge, due to the magic swirling inside of her lithe frame, hovering inches beneath her skin. She stiffened slightly at my touch, though her expression remained unchanged.

"You _enjoyed_ the taste of coffee," I said, slowly, like I was speaking to a child. "You _chose_ to make Maggie feel better. You _appreciated_ beauty in something, and when I threw a snowball at you, you got _angry_. _Tools_ don't do any of those things. You are _not_ a tool."

Saber's glare softened. It seemed she was beginning to understand why I'd snapped at her that morning.

"...But I'm not..." she began, furrowing her brow. "You need to look at this situation with a clear head, Master. I may be a woman, but-"

"That has _nothing_ to do with it," I interjected. And it was true - well, mostly true. "I _am_ seeing things clearly. I get that I summoned you. I get that you aren't going to be here long. And I get that the Command Seals on my wrist give me... control, over you."

I glanced at the mark in question, and an ugly taste came to my mouth. I didn't want to be a Master. I didn't want to control anyone. I just wanted to help people. That was the only thought running through my mind when I was in the circle, pumping it full of my magic. The summoning had been an unintentional consequence - I wasn't much of a believer in Fate, or Karma.

And yet, here I was, with ownership over someone else's _soul._ I guess it's true, what they say - the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

"But at the end of the day, we're in this together," I said. Though I towered over her by a good two feet, as her sea-green eyes settled on me again, I felt like I was standing before a judge. The knowledge of her strength, or the memory of her power – the sight of her, bathed in the light of _Amoracchius_ – clashed vividly with the image of the slip of a girl that stood in Charity's kitchen, her dress damp and spotted.

"We both want the same thing, and we're both fighting for it." I continued. "I may have Command Seals, but I haven't earned them, and I'm not your better. So stop calling me Master. You'll make my old apprentice jealous in more than one way, and Murphy will tear you a new one."

"Master-" I cut her off again with a wave of my hand.

"I'm serious. Don't call me _Master_. I'm nobody's _Master._ " I said, spitting out the word like a curse. "Call me _Harry_. It's my name."

"H-Harry... it seems I owe you an apology," Saber murmured. "Initially, I thought that you were denying your position, and your responsibility in the war. But now, I think I understand. It is not a refusal to fight, nor a disregard for my honor that has dictated your actions. I was wrong to pass judgment prematurely."

I shrugged.

"Everyone should be able to make choices for themselves, for better or worse. I don't think anyone should have the power that I have over you, " I said, "I may have Command Seals, but I won't force you to do anything that you don't want to. If you're going to do something - like sharing your name - it's going to be because you want to, not because you _have_ to."

For just a moment, I caught her gaze and said, "I don't _need_ to know your name. Whoever you were, whoever you are now, you're okay in my book. You _saved_ Murphy. _That's_ what's important to me." By the time I finished talking, my voice was little more than a whisper.

Saber bowed her head and closed her eyes.

"And another thing," I continued, gesturing to the softly glowing blade, "Every knight needs a weapon. I was left in charge of finding this sword's next owner - and after seeing you in action last night... well, I doubt anyone here is more qualified to use it. Whoever you are, you can't be a bad person, because that blade chose _you_."

I wasn't sure what kind of response I expected. Maybe a 'thank you', or something about a 'weapon being needed for the war.' I thought that she was finally beginning to _understand_. I thought that, maybe, despite the rocky start we'd gotten off to, I'd managed to repair things between us.

Instead, Saber drew in on herself, if only slightly. Her head dipped, and when her eyes graced the blade, they became filled with... _regret?_

That, in and of itself, was unusual. She'd been nothing but fearless, bold, and proud since the moment she'd popped up in my basement. She'd stared down Berserker, and beaten him senseless, without so much as breaking sweat. Small or not, armed or unarmed, she had _stones_.

So what was it about the sword that bothered her? She'd been handling it with a smile, moments before.

"...What's the matter?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Something I said?"

"...No," Saber murmured. "It's..."

Suddenly, a buzzing filled the kitchen, and Murphy's cell started skipping across the granite counter top.

I sighed, and held up a hand in apology to Saber. She shook her head and held out a hand, as if to say 'go ahead'.

I crossed the kitchen, picked up the phone, and brought it to my ear.

"This is Dresden. Go ahead."

" _I've got an update for you_." The voice rolled through the speaker like loose gravel over concrete.

My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't keep from a shit-eating grin from splitting my face. The timing had been terrible, but the news was perfect.

"A clue? On the first call? You really know how to treat a guy. Should give Murphy some pointers," I said. I held the receiver between my ear and my shoulder, and fished my notepad out of my pocket. Stallings chuckled.

 _"Don't get too eager, now. It might not be anything special, but I've compiled a few reports from the boys, and I think we've found something..."_

I scratched furiously in my handy dandy notebook, flipped to a new page, and kept writing.

"...This... is _exactly_ what I needed," I said, my grin widening as I filled another page. "Stallings, if you find anything else, be sure to let me know. Stay clear of the place once the sun sets. I'm going to do some digging on my own, and I don't want anyone else to get involved."

 _"Of course, Harry."_ Stallings replied, his tone growing serious. _"But if you need any help, know that the boys at SI have your back. We're just a call away."_

The line buzzed, and went dead with a click.

"Harry?" Saber approached me from behind, _Amoracchius_ held loosely in her grip. She looked to me, her lips pursed, and at my notepad. "What's going on?"

I tucked the notepad back into my duster pocket, and pulled my .357 from its holster. In a practiced motion, I popped it open and checked the number of rounds, before slamming it shut with a flick of my wrist.

"I'm thinking about taking a _walk,_ " I replied, securing the gun beneath my duster. I flashed the knight a grin. "Ready to stretch your legs, Saber?"

She nodded, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips, and reached for the hilt of her sword.


	15. Chapter 15

**[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Late Post]** : Between a writer's block and having a hectic schedule as of late, writing has been the last thing on my mind, and I completely forgot to update the story! Rest assured, though, that it isn't abandoned and I'll be posting more in the future, although updates will now be coming at a slightly slower pace due to time constraints.

 **[Saber's Identity]** : The identity of the Saber in this story is the same as in Unlimited Blade Works. However, her character is not the same, as this is the Dresdenverse, and thus the events of Fate/Zero, including meeting Irisveil, did not happen. Infer what you will about her motivations and expectations, given her situation. More will be covered as the story goes on.

 **[Feedback]** : In the last month, the number of people subscribed to this story has increased by about 30%, which is _huge_. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Feel free to rate and review. I love getting feedback!

* * *

As the saying goes, a plan never survives contact with the enemy.

In my line of work, that's all too true.

Stallings' report had been straight and to the point. There'd been a series of noise complaints filed with CPD, detailing strange sounds coming from the eastern docks along Lake Michigan. At first glance, those complaints might not seem like much. They'd been all but overlooked by Chicago PD, left on the back burner. After all, nobody had time to deal with what they assumed to be a bunch of rowdy drunks, not when pre-teens were going missing in the streets of Chicago.

But Chicago PD wasn't SI. When those reports had crossed Stallings' desk, he'd known right away that there was more to the situation than met the eye. The following night, when he got wind of a worker disappearing in the same area, he'd realized what I had: that the guard was probably dead, and that supernatural forces were somehow involved.

My money was on the Fomor. They're an ancient race of water-dwelling creatures, after all. It would only make sense that they'd need a base of operations close to Chicago, one that catered to their needs.

So, I grabbed my staff and wizard hat, and got a-movin'. I filled Saber in on the details as we traveled.

The plan was to take a stroll through the Nevernever, pop out at the docks, do a little surveillance, talk to a few workers, maybe set up a magical eye in the sky, and then waltz home before anyone noticed that we were gone.

It should have been a simple run, in and out. Unfortunately, things didn't exactly work out that way.

The Nevernever doesn't abide by conventional rules of the mortal world. It's like looking into a cracked mirror – it resembles the _world that is,_ but only to a point.

Some realms of the Nevernever can be downright strange. Think _Twilight Zone_. There are pockets of the Nevernever in which gravity doesn't exist, and others where the sky is purple. There are some teeming with all sorts of life - most of it sharp, spooky and _hungry_ – and others that hold no life at all.

Anyway. Trust me, I've seen some shit, and I've _barely_ scraped the surface of the Nevernever. It's a realm of possibility and chaos, not somewhere to travel unless you're a wizard and have a knowledge of the Ways. And, as unfortunate as it is, even wizards make mistakes.

There was one detail I'd forgotten to take into account when I decided to walk through the Nevernever: Time dilation.

Time gets kind of wonky in some areas of the Nevernever. The walk that Saber and I took – through a spring clearing, into a gopher hole, underneath a pink waterfall, and then through a swamp with mud that clung to my jeans like super glue – felt like it took about half an hour.

When we emerged from the Nevernever, passing through a Way into the mortal world, the sun had already set.

" _Hell's bells,_ " I cursed. "We're _late_."

We were standing on top of a stack of cold steel storage units. All around us, towers of twisted, rusting metal rose up from the earth like dragon's teeth. The bare earth, packed down hard by heavy machinery, was littered with spare tires and blocks of compressed steel that were probably cars at some point. The whole area was lit by spotlights that loomed overhead, peering down at us like so many unblinking eyes.

In the distance, the dark waters of Lake Michigan churned and writhed, gliding over the sand like silk sheets. The gleaming light of the moon was choked, obscured, by a thick blanket of clouds that stretched endlessly into the distance. Not a star could be seen in the night sky.

"Murphy's gonna _kill_ me when I get home," I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

"I don't know about that," replied Saber. "She seems quite taken with you."

I glanced at the knight. At my insistence, she'd changed out into more modern clothing – a white winter coat, blue jeans, leather gloves, and an old pair of Molly's combat boots that she'd left behind. A pair of white earmuffs kept her lobes toasty, and _Amoracchius_ was concealed in a sports bag that was slung across her back.

The safety of the Carpenters relied on the two of us going unseen, and a woman in a blue and gold Renaissance dress would stand out like a sore thumb at the docks.

Then again, so would a seven foot tall wizard in a battered duster.

As a matter of fact, there was no point in trying to be stealthy. If I'd arrived when I intended to, traveling through the Nevernever wouldn't have been an issue. However, opening up a Way from the mortal world to the Nevernever released a decent amount of magical feedback... and night was the domain of the moonlit world. If there were any Fomor about – and chances are, there were - they'd probably have picked up on our arrival.

I _really_ should have thought things through a little more.

"You don't know about Murphy," I replied, raising an eyebrow. "Sanya has this expression he uses to describe her: _tiny, but fierce_. She's like a honey badger, and territorial to boot. She wouldn't know mercy if it bought her a birthday card every year."

Saber hummed. She didn't strike me as the laughing sort – she probably thought she was too dignified to laugh – but she gave me an look that could have passed for amusement. I felt my lips split into a wry grin.

"Be that as it may. I wouldn't presume failure. Not just yet," Saber murmured. She closed her eyes, and her brow furrowed. "Something is... amiss. The air is... thick, and choking."

She tilted her head to the side, and sniffed quietly. And when she spoke, her voice was quiet, but sharp as steel, enough to set me on edge. "Do you smell that?"

I took a deep whiff – and stiffened, my spine going ramrod straight. Beneath the cool caress of the water, beneath the hazy aroma of gasoline and the sharp tang of rusting iron, I caught it. It was faint, but it was there, lingering in the air like a predator in the darkness. It oozed through my nostrils like sickly-sweet molasses, leaving a taste on my tongue that made me cringe.

Blood.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," I muttered, my scowl mirroring hers. I planted my staff in the ice, along with the butt of my staff. A cool wind blew in the night air, causing my duster to billow out behind me, but the chill that rolled down my spine had nothing to do with the cold.

It seemed that we'd come to the right place after all.

"...I can track it to its source," Saber said. She turned her heavy gaze to the heart of the scrap yard, her back straight, shoulders firm, a cool rage burning in her sea-green eyes.

"Follow your nose, wherever it goes," I muttered.

* * *

Saber vaulted down from the storage container, and I followed shortly after. She quirked an eyebrow at me as I landed beside her, her gaze flickering with concern.

She probably wasn't comfortable with the idea of me risking my neck – after all, if I died, she died too. And if I died, well, she wouldn't get a shot at _her_ wish, whatever it was.

She knew I was a wizard – so she probably expected me to stay on the back-lines. After all, that was what most wizards did. The White Council set the standard, timelessly earning wizards the world over a reputation by sitting on their asses when hell came a-knocking.

However, I'm an exception to that rule. I'm not most wizards. I don't sit back and patiently conjure up servants to do my fighting for me. Harry Dresden, come hell or high water, fights his own battles.

I pulled my blasting rod from my duster pocket and started walking, not sparing Saber a second glance, even as I felt her gaze burning into my duster. She pursed her lips, but after a moment's hesitation, begrudgingly fell into step behind me.

She hadn't manifested her armor, or drawn _Amoracchius_ – and those were both smart decisions. The scent of blood was drawing us in, but what we'd find was still an unknown. There was a distinct possibility that we were walking into a trap, and my paranoia wouldn't let me discount it. Even if the intel we were running on came from Stallings, there was a chance that those reports had been forged, or that someone else also had access to them. There were many hands in the pot, where Chicago PD was concerned.

Despite Saber's state of dress, I was well aware of how she could change that in an instant. Her eyes flickered along the cracks and grooves in the piles of scrap, as though expecting an enemy to emerge from them at any time. In the time it took me to blink, she could manifest her armor, pull out _Amoracchius,_ and _justice_ the hell out of anything that stood in our path.

We neared the center of the yard, and as we rounded a bend in the dirt road, my thoughts were suddenly and violently interrupted. The air swelled with the pungent aroma of blood and rot, so thick and sweet that it singed my nostrils. I stopped in my tracks as a familiar terror crept up my spine. With an effort of will, I clamped down on my fear and shoved it into the deepest corner of my mind.

"We're close," I said.

Saber walked past me, her footsteps cautious and near-silent.

"Look here," she whispered, as she leaned against a concrete wall. I steeled myself and peered over her shoulder.

Ahead of us was a clearing in the debris – the center of the scrapyard, almost like a gladiatorial pit, surrounded in a ring of abandoned construction vehicles. Fires dotted the yard, flickering hungrily as they reached up towards the heavens, and a large pyre lit the center, easily climbing twenty feet into the air.

If you've never seen Fomor before, imagine Gollum from _Lord of the Rings_. Now, imagine that he's had done the nasty with an American bullfrog. The result is a squat, greasy ball of muscle and warts, covered with fine little hairs, with beady eyes, webbed hands and a craving for human flesh, measuring in at about five feet tall. A single Fomor of them would be enough to give an average wizard pause – between having a natural talent for entropy magic, acidic saliva, as well as incredible strength and speed, a pack of them might even give _me_ pause.

Their ugly corpses littered the yard like weeds, dozens of them, slowly fading into ectoplasmic goo.

That shocked me, but not as much as the sight of distinctly human bodies lying among those of the Fomor. Some of them were dressed like dock workers. Others were clothed in tattered rags that could barely be called clothing – possibly vagrants, taken off of the street.

Their bones, crushed. Their faces, mangled. Their skin, boiled away by acid. Beneath the blood and dirty, they were barely recognizable as human.

The smell of blood and death threatened to overwhelm me for a moment, but I clamped down on my quailing stomach and forced myself to continue on.

Saber's grip settled on the hilt of her sword, and she drew it in a slow, practiced motion. With a whispered word, and a faint pulse of magic, her sword was obscured from view, hidden behind a glamour of swirling winds.

"Stay behind me," I murmured. Saber blinked, surprised, as I walked past her, wading into the ocean of decaying corpses that threatened to swallow me whole. I held my staff aloft, its tip glowing with a soft red light.

"Harry," the knight murmured. Her voice carried a note of confusion – perhaps concern, and frustration – but I didn't pay her any mind. My attention was on the bodies.

Experiencing death is never easy. Each time you see it, or smell it, a little nail is etched into your brain. A little reminder, a memory, a clearer understanding that life is temporary, that even the strong can fall and chaos can take hold in an instant.

Your gaze skims over the fallen, never lingering too long in one spot... otherwise, you might notice something peculiar. The color of a dead man's eyes, a trinket clasped in the hands of a child, the swollen belly of an expectant mother... it's those little details that get you. They work their way into your mind, whispering, playing to your darkest fears – evoking memories of friends and loved ones.

It's a fear that no one can escape: the fear of the the great unknown, the final destination, the cold, clammy hands of death.

It's because of that reminder that most people hate seeing death, particularly when that death is violent... and so, most will look away, imagining, if just for a brief moment, that the corpses aren't piling at their feet.

I certainly don't blame anyone for acting that way – it's an entirely human reaction. Probably a healthy one, too, where sanity is concerned. But, me – well, I've never been accused of sanity, not even in my younger years.

When I look upon the dead, I _see_ those details. I _search_ for them. I'm not quite sure why I do it – perhaps it's in my nature as a detective, or in the lessons I learned from Ebeneezer in my younger years, who insisted that all life was precious, and that the duty of a wizard is to protect it.

Rather than ignore what I see as many do, I _reject_ it. I take the fear, the anger, the revulsion that wells up inside of me, and use it as fuel... fuel, to prevent others from boarding that same southbound train.

Seeing all those bodies gave me _plenty_ of fuel, and before I knew it, I started to _burn_.

My staff began glowing faintly with contained power, humming pleasantly in my grasp. My heart beat faster. My jaw tightened. The Mantle twitched to life, and began greedily drinking in the rage that threatened to consume me. Each step was quicker than the one before it. I knew that rushing in to the field of bodies wasn't the smartest decision – but, knowing that Saber had my back, I didn't really _care_.

I was nearing the center of the clearing when a shriek pierced the night, like nails on a chalkboard – something ugly, wrong, _inhuman._ A dark shape, illuminated by the firelight, was tossed into the pyre. It steamed, popped, and hissed as it was consumed by the inferno.

Silence fell, and then a voice broke it.

"Is this _truly_ the extent of your efforts? Have you no pride? No strength? And to think, you believe yourselves _gods,_ " a man roared, his voice piercing the cool night air like a thunderclap.

A man stepped into view. He stood a good six and a half feet tall, and was clothed in leather armor that left the arms and ankles bare. Every inch of his exposed skin was sun-bronzed and criss-crossed by white lines: faded scars, mementos of battles fought. He had short, black hair, cropped in a military style, and a thick goatee. In one hand, he held a spear; in the other he clutched a tower shield, forged from bronze or some other precious metal, that was nearly as tall as he was.

The man glanced in my direction, and narrowed his gaze.

"...It seems I was not the only one drawn here this night," he muttered.

I stopped twenty feet away from him and planted my staff firmly in the dirt. The power of the Mantle coursed through me, whispering in my ear, urging me forward, but I held it at bay.

"You must be Harry Dresden," he stated, his voice loud and firm, _oozing_ military pride. His eyes were grey, and seemed to drill into me like those of a hawk, drinking in my appearance, hovering briefly over my blasting rod, my staff, and the woman standing beside me.

"Judging by the spear, I'm guessing that you're Lancer," I said, glancing down at his sandal-wrapped feet, "Though I've never heard of a Heroic Spirit that wears Crocs."

"Your powers of deduction serve you well," mused the man, missing the jab entirely. I couldn't tell if he was praising me, insulting me, or both.

He scratched thoughtfully at his salt-and-pepper goatee with thick, calloused fingers. "My master has told me much about you. You have a reputation for the direct approach, and I see that it is well-founded."

"Your Master?" I asked, a knot of fear worming its way into my gut, weakening my resolve, and strengthening the pull of the Mantle. The way he said it told me two things. One, that someone I knew personally was involved in the war – and two, they were playing for another team.

Lancer nodded stoically. "Indeed. My Master, the angel that she is, is actually quite fond of you. Her description of your abilities was quite extensive, although... I do not think she expected you to be a Master in this war. It's a shame, really."

"Oh?" I asked, "What is?"

"That I must kill you."

His lance's tip glinted menacingly in the light, and I felt a bead of sweat drip down my brow. Staring down a Servant was no easy feat, but I managed, hiding my fear and anger behind a stony mask.

As I understood it, the war was won by killing Servants. When only one Servant remained, that servant and their Master would be 'chosen' by the Grail. However, nothing I'd learned had suggested that the Masters needed to die.

...And then I realized. What was it that Saber had said? Her body was created by the Grail, but she drew magic from me in order to stay alive. The Command Seals on my wrist were her tether to the mortal world. If I was killed... she'd fade away.

Cut off the head, and kill the beast.

I suddenly felt very, _very_ vulnerable.

"If your Master is such a fan," I replied, my mouth dry, "Something tells me she might get a little jealous if you nailed me with that manly spear of yours."

Lancer snorted. "She spoke of your humor. It's an honorable thing, to laugh in the face of death, and I commend you for that. But, no - she and I are of like minds on this issue. Sometimes, even a valued pawn must be sacrificed in order to win a war."

"Tried death once," I said, "didn't care for it."

"Truly?" Lancer blinked, eyeing me with a new-found respect, and I felt Saber's eyes settle on me, searching. "Still, however strong, a mere mortal is no match for a Servant."

"Tell that to Berserker," I said, my grip tightening around my staff.

"A mad dog is not a proper Servant," replied Lancer, his eyes filled with contempt. "He fights dishonorably and toys with his opponents instead of finishing them. _I_ will not make the same mistake."

Lancer's eyes drifted to the knight beside me, and his expression soured. "It seems, though, that I will not be able to take any enjoyment from this battle. For all I have heard of your deeds, your servant does not befit you. The battlefield is a place for warriors, not for _little girls_ playing _dress-up_."

Magic, angry and hot, _exploded_ to life behind me. Saber's armor appeared in a flash of blue light, encasing her limbs in steel. The sports bag, now held in her hands, was torn to shreds in a sudden torrent of wind... but _Amoracchius_ was nowhere to be seen. Her hands were clasped together, as though around the hilt of a sword, yet there was no sight of the golden blade.

She hadn't cast a glamour around her blade – she did something much more impressive. Without an incantation, a circle, or a prior enchantment, she'd surrounded her blade in a cocoon of wind, a tightly compressed hurricane that _bent the light around her sword,_ making it invisible from hilt to tip. By her own admission, in life, she was no wizard.

If I hadn't realized it before, I did then. Servants, no matter their size, were not to be taken lightly... and the Grail was capable of extraordinary feats.

"That's more like it," Lancer mused, chuckling darkly. "The lioness bares her fangs."

"Harry." Her voice as cool and level as her gaze, but there was a power in it I couldn't ignore.

I didn't know who Lancer's master was, but that didn't matter. They weren't _here_ , which meant that Saber and I held the advantage in numbers. Given that he was a Servant, we'd have to fight him eventually in order to win the War. Now was as good a time as any, when we were both fresh, in an area away from innocent victims.

The last time I'd fought a Servant, I'd been beaten badly. This time, though, I understood what I was fighting – and with Saber's help, I knew this was a fight I could _win_.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing my eyes – and let loose the floodgates, releasing all of the emotions I'd forced away. The fear, the frustration, the sadness, the disgust – and the _rage_. The _rage_ I'd felt at seeing the human corpses lying in the yard. Powerless, everyday people, slaughtered like sheep. I knew there would be many more until the conflict ended. How many _families_ had been _torn apart_ by this senseless War?

I snarled. With a mind of steel, I clamped down on those emotions, and threw them into the pyre of magical energy that burned away within me. My staff lit up like a Christmas tree from Hell, and a thin layer of ice coated my duster as the Mantle was roused from its slumber.

Lancer's sandal-clad feet dug into the earth, and his powerful legs coiled like steel springs. He hefted his massive shield with the ease of a paperweight, and positioned his spear above it, its tip gleaming in the firelight. His eyes – as grey as old stone – examined me clinically.

"Saber..." I uttered, my voice hot and eager, twisted into something _hungry_. How much of it was me, and how much of it was the Mantle, I wasn't sure.

Saber tensed, her plate mail clattering as she crouched, her invisible sword held at her hip.

Time slowed.

Blood dripped.

The breeze stilled.

Eyes, as black as coal, flashed in the night... and my lips split into a hungry, wicked grin.

"... _Get him_."


	16. Chapter 16

Golden eyes pierced me, and my breath hitched in my throat.

 _I stood in a barren desert, the sands stained red with blood. Countless bodies piled endlessly at my feet. Black arrows rose from the corpses like blades of grass, and the stench sent my stomach rolling. No longer were the bodies those of the fallen Fomor – but of men, men in leather armor and red capes, sprawled and broken on the battlefield, like kindling on a funeral pyre._

 _Sweat and soot stained my brow. My limbs ached, like I'd just finished benching a car and some change. It took everything I had to raise my head to the sky._

 _Black clouds hung ominously in the distance, growing closer – no, not clouds, but arrows. A rain of arrows, black as pitch, each one of them a death sentence, the whims of an angry god, descended. They pierced me, one after another, pain igniting every nerve in a way that washed away conscious thought. I fell to my knees, staring at an empty sky – but then there were clouds, black clouds, growing larger, a_ second _volley, descending -_

I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and focused, ignoring the pain.

What I was seeing - it was _terrifying_. But – but it wasn't _real_. I knew it wasn't. It was – an illusion. A _glamour_. Not a soulgaze. Probably... intent to kill, boosted with a stupid amount of power. Delivered through the eyes. Saber had magic resistance, but I didn't, so he went after me. Tried to kill me, or at least disable me, to even the odds against Saber. Any lesser man would have been killed by sheer terror, or would have been driven senseless by the pain.

But not me. Not Harry Dresden. I'd been through worse, and had come out swinging before.

\- _arrows_ , _black arrows_ -

I ignored them, looking away _. My gaze fell to the bodies of fallen men at my feet, lying side by side... and_ I thought of the hospital.

I thought of those kids, wrapped in white cotton sheets, their heart monitors beeping away in time to the beat of a funeral dirge. Compared to what I'd seen when I'd opened my Sight, compared to the fear I'd had to face _then_ , Lancer's spell was a shoddy _parlor trick_.

And I was going to let it _win?_ I was going to let it _beat me?_

Anger welled within my breast, a righteous fury that seized me. I focused on that anger, that disdain – the frustration I felt, at my own moment of weakness – and blocked out everything else.

" _Memoratum, defendre memorarius_ ," I whispered, forcing my lips to move. The magic poured out of me, _hot and hard, blasting away the clouds of ash and bloody sand._

* * *

My eyes widened, and my heart raced. I was still on my feet, still standing. I'd fought off whatever Lancer had done to my mind, but my limbs – they weren't responding. I couldn't _move_. A voice in the back of my head was _screaming_ at me to do something, to do _anything._ My heart skipped a beat, then two.

Lancer was inches away from me, shield raised, his spear-arm coiled like a serpent poised to strike. Its razor tip, gleaming wickedly in the flickering light, was inches from me. It wasn't a cursed spear, not like Berserker's, but believe me, being on the business end of it was _just_ as terrifying. I knew my enchanted duster wouldn't hold up to the blow, so I reacted.

I tried to raise my staff – and my hand twitched a little. My limbs felt heavy, like gravity had tripled and I'd just finished running a marathon. I could barely _breathe_ – and trying to was about to become a futile gesture. Something told me that if Lancer's spear connected, I wouldn't have lungs to breathe _with_.

The steel tip inched closer and closer to me. Adrenaline messed with my sense of time. For the second time in as many nights I was utterly convinced I was going to die. I didn't have time for a spell, couldn't move... my mind scrambled to make sense of what was _happening_ , how I could _escape_ , how I could _fight_ , because I didn't want to _die –_

\- people _needed_ me, I couldn't just _die_ , _I_ was -

 _-my body was_ -

The spear stopped, as though it had hit a solid wall, inches from my heart. I felt my heart drop into my stomach. Lancer scowled, glancing to my left.

My eyes followed his.

Saber stood beside me, her hands extended. I couldn't see the blade – _Amoracchius_ was invisible, after all – but she'd neatly interposed her sword between the two of us, stopping a blow that would have had me dead to rights.

I collapsed to my hands and knees, gasping for air. My vision was blurred, my limbs weak, and my stomach threatening to empty its contents onto the ground. I gritted my teeth, sucked in a breath, and forced myself to raise my head.

I saw Saber lunge forward, cracking the pavement with the force behind her leap, and swing _Amoracchius_ down in a precise overhand strike at Lancer's unprotected head.

Her blade's unseen advance was halted by Lancer's massive shield, but I _felt_ the power behind the blow; she'd reinforced her strikes with wind, much like she had in Murphy's basement, and the recoil from her blows was great enough to rattle my teeth.

For a moment, she remained in that position, held aloft by the power behind her swing.

Lancer roared and thrust forward with his copper shield, launching Saber up and away. The blonde knight flipped through the air, touched down and re-engaged, pressing Lancer with an unrelenting offensive. It was impossible to keep track of her swordplay – she was simply moving _too fast,_ and the wind barrier that wrapped around her blade didn't make things any easier.

Lancer appeared to be having as much trouble following her movements as I was. He moved in step with Saber, shield at the ready, absorbing blow after blow with the bronze bulwark in his hands, but couldn't squeeze in a counter-attack. His shield thundered beneath each crushing blow, ringing like a church bell, tolling endlessly into the night.

Though I couldn't see it, I knew there would be no missteps, no holes in Saber's guard. She was a whirling dervish of blue and gold, cutting through the night air like a steel tempest. In contrast, Lancer stood before her, his feet planted, unyielding. Through effective use of his massive shield and the raw strength he possessed, he checked her at every turn, forcing her into a standstill.

 _An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object._

I knew that I could make a difference in that fight, if I joined in. Lancer wasn't nearly as fast as Berserker had been – and the Mantle could even the odds between us, giving me the chance to stand toe-to-toe with Lancer, if only for a short time. I was sure I'd end up with a nasty headache, and maybe a bruised limb or two, but with Saber at my back – we'd _crush_ him.

However, I couldn't move – not yet, at least. Strength was returning to my limbs. My fingers twitched with a little more surety, and with effort, I was able to close a hand around my staff.

Complicating things was my lack of magic. Though Lancer was no Wizard, he was a Servant, and what he lacked in finesse he made up for in raw power. I'd had to draw on the power of the Mantle, as well as my own considerable reserves of magic, in order to break out of whatever _glamour_ he'd hit me with. My head pounded incessantly, like I'd spent the afternoon staring into the sun.

Between the botched trip through the Nevernever, the events of the last days, and the stupidly ridiculous odds I was facing, I'd just about run out of patience. I was utterly convinced that God had descended from his heavenly throne, thrust a might finger in my direction, and shouted, " _Fuck you in particular!_ "

If I were alone, I would have been pasted within seconds of stepping up to the plate. But, this this time around, I had help: _Saber_ , who'd hit the field and come out swinging.

While I'd been out of it, Saber pressed her advantage, trying to drive Lancer back – but it was no easy task. The environment favored Lancer. The open air allowed him to use his spear's greater range more effectively, giving him an edge against Saber's shorter blade. Her greater speed was countered by his shield, which kept her from getting inside his guard and landing a decisive blow.

She had him forced onto the defensive... but as I watched him move, a suspicion started gnawing at my gut. Even if Saber was fast, he was a Servant - so he should have been able to keep up. Even if he couldn't match her blow for blow, he could still _fight_. And yet, he wasn't attacking her. _At all_. It was almost like he was... _stalling_.

Saber, apparently noticing the same thing I had, picked up her pace. Snarling, she lunged forward, the tip of her invisible sword angling down towards Lancer's eyes. Reflexively, the grizzled warrior raised his shield to deflect the blow.

As he did, I realized that Saber's strike was a feint, and it was well-executed, too. Saber was a small target, and even though Lancer possessed greater reach, Saber's weapon was far more nimble. In the precious second that Lancer had raised his shield to guard his face, he'd obscured his vision, and the expected blow never came. Instead, twisting on her heel, Saber dipped her blade away and used the momentum behind her swing to plant a heel kick solidly in the Servant's gut.

I heard a sharp crack, followed by a pained grunt, and Lancer was blown backwards with the force of a cannonball.

Speaking from personal experience, I knew how hard Servants could hit – any mortal would have buckled beneath that blow, their spine folding like tissue paper. That couldn't have been an easy blow to take.

But, as Saber charged forward, Lancer was already on his feet, his shield raised just in time to block.

Saber stepped into Lancer's guard, and in the flickering light, I saw his eyes widen in surprise. She was too close to swing with _Amoracchius_ , and against a seemingly larger opponent, even an injured one, grappling was suicidal.

Rather than try to smash through his shield, or to knock him off balance, Saber tried something different. She brought her sword down – and snared the lip of Lancer's tower shield with _Amoracchius'_ invisible guard, trapping it.

Her shouted pierced the air, and my blood _sang_. There was _power_ in her voice. Not magic - at least, I didn't think it was magic - but charisma, _purity._

Saber pulled Lancer's shield to the floor, and used the same motion to propel herself over his head, somersaulting into the air. Mid-flight, she twisted, extending her arm and drilling _Amoracchius_ towards the vulnerable flesh at the base of his neck.

It was a killing blow.

However, Lancer wasn't killed so easily. No, a broken rib and a single cut wouldn't be enough to put a Servant six feet under. I may have been new to the Holy Grail War, but I knew that much.

Somehow, he'd known what was coming. I knew he hadn't _seen_ the blow, so he must have predicted Saber's movement. As the tip of her blade augered towards his neck, he threw himself to the side, and batted at the invisible blade with his spear. Her sword skittered along the length of his spear before its tip was deflected harmessly away.

Silence fell as the two Servants sized each other up. Both were breathing heavily, though Lancer looked slightly worse for wear.

"An invisible blade," muttered Lancer, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I wonder at your identity. It's not often that a Hero bears such a weapon."

"A blade?" Parroted Saber, with a scowl that matched mine. "It could be an axe, a mace... a _mop_."

For a while there, I was convinced that she had the emotional range of a teaspoon – or, worse, _Morgan_. She was _learning_. My lips twitched into a grin.

"Humor, at a time like this? You've quite the steel in you," replied Lancer, his smile mirroring mine. He ran a hand through his graying beard, and eyed the both of us like a a pair of favored children. "I'm impressed. Saber, not only are you proving a worthy opponent, it seems that your Master lives up to his reputation – stubborn and hard to kill, like a cockroach. He's already thrown off my spell... a feat which should be impossible for practitioners of this era, but he's done it anyway."

Saber glanced towards me, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Yep," I croaked. My tongue was a little heavy in my mouth, and tingled like I'd had more than one shot too many. "I get that a lot."

Lancer chuckled. "I imagine that you do. If it weren't for your reputation, and for this little stunt of yours, I'd take you for a fool."

"Most people don't anymore," I replied. "The ones that did... regretted it."

"And so I have not." Lancer said, his smile disappearing. Then, his features turned cold. His brow furrowed, and his back straightened. His spear dangled loosely between his fingertips, spinning lazily, its tip glinting in the firelight. "This fight has already ended."

There was something in his bearing that _scared_ me, and I realized that I might not have been the only person to underestimate their opponent.

"You speak of victory, yet your wounds tell a different story," retorted Saber.

Lancer's spear stilled, snapping to attention his grip – its steel tip pointed at the blonde knight's heart.

"Four feet," stated Lancer, "six inches, from hilt to tip. Two inches thick at the base of the blade. The pommel extends two-and-a-half inches across on either side. Now, I don't need to see your _sword_ – all I need to see is your _body_. Your movements will tell me everything I need to know."

* * *

Saber stiffened, and so did I. My blood ran cold, and my tongue dried out in my mouth.

I'd underestimated Lancer. He might have _looked_ like a juiced-up, middle-aged Bowflex God, but he knew how to put two and two together. Rather than commit to a losing fight, he'd stalled out – and taken the time to measure the length of _Amoracchius._ Discovering the exact length of an invisible sword was one thing, but doing it _mid-fight_?

The man we faced wasn't a beast of war like Berserker. He was a _tactician._ It came across in the way he moved, the way he committed himself to each action. was patient and powerful, like a rolling stone, gaining momentum as it traveled, and with each step, his certainty, his conviction, grew – until anything standing in his way would be _crushed_.

He had something up his sleeve, and the look in his eyes – remorseful, but resolved – _chilled_ me to the bone. He began walking towards me, his sandaled feet beating the earth in a slow, steady funeral march.

Saber stepped between the two of us, her sword at the ready.

"Stand back," hissed Saber, her eyes burning furiously. Her plate armor clicked as she moved, planting her feet firmly in the damp earth. "You will not harm a _hair_ on his head."

"I will do what must be done," replied Lancer. "My Mistress and I must win this war, for the good of the city – for the World. There are many forces at play here – and, despite his insight, your Master is involved in ways even _he_ doesn't fully appreciate. He must be destroyed, before he fulfills his role."

"If you want to kill him, you'll go through me first."

Lancer sighed, his voice aching with sadness – but also an iron resolve. He met Saber's glare with his own.

"A nation may only prosper in the shadow of a grave. Sometimes, a man must be sacrificed for the good of all."

Saber stepped forward, lashing out with her sword. The blow was lightning-fast, and should have pushed Lancer back onto the defensive, as the others before it had done.

This time, things were different. Lancer spun, batting aside her blade with his shield – and then, he _struck,_ his spear arcing through the air, as deadly and agile as a scorpion's stinger. Saber bobbed her head to the side, narrowly dodging a blow that would have maimed her – and then I saw it.

A thin, red line, inches from her jugular.

I wanted to believe that Saber could win in a straight-up fight with Lancer. I'd seen her conviction, her strength, when she'd saved Murphy and I from Berserker – and that feeling, basking in the light of _Amoracchius,_ was something that stayed with me.

But there was something in Lancer – a promise carried in the way he moved, the way he strode towards me, like a dispassionate executioner - that set my teeth on edge. He talked a big game, but had the skill to back it up. Every movement he made was efficient, controlled, and calculated.

All it would take was one decisive strike, and Saber would die.

I couldn't let that happen.

Strength was returning to my limbs, but not fast enough. I was on my hands and knees, grasping at my staff with a hungry palm, but the knotted wood insisted on slipping through my fingers. Static rippled through me in waves, like my whole body had fallen asleep, and my breath came in short grunts as I tried to force my body to move.

I couldn't cast, either – even if I _hadn't_ just blown all of my energy fighting off his _glamour_ , there was a good chance that none of my spells would be strong enough to pierce Lancer's magic resistance. If I tried to cast, I'd just be wasting my time – and the few precious seconds that Saber and I had would slip through my fingers like grains of sand.

No, I only had one tool left: my _mind_. It was time I started using it, instead of gawking at the battle like an awestruck fool.

The key to winning any fight is knowledge. Knowledge of the battlefield, of the battle – of the opponent.

I shut out all of the distractions – the clashing of steel, the smell of rot and death, the feeling of the moist gravel beneath my fingertips – and focused, recalling the conversation I'd had with Saber the night before. Recalling, with perfect clarity, the words that Lancer and Saber had exchanged – recalling his mannerisms, his appearance.

What was a Servant? As Saber had put it, they were heroic spirits - people of legend who died and gave up their afterlife for a shot at the grail. The grail, in turn, granted them power... but that power was _specific_. The strengths of a Servant reflected those of their legend, and the bigger the legend, the more powerful the Servant.

Lancer was a skilled fighter – so, whoever Lancer was in life was known for his battlefield prowess. Given his armor and weapons, he was probably a Greek hero – like Ajax, Hector, or Achilles.

Given his size, his shield, and his sheer _intelligence_ , my money was on Ajax.

A shriek – metal grinding against metal – interrupted my thoughts.

Saber grunted as the tip of Lancer's spear carved a gash into her forearm, just above the wrist. Blood splattered on the ground, staining her armor red, but she didn't let up. Her sword clashed violently against Lancer's spear, and he growled, driving her back. Sparks flashed as his spear skittered along her breastplate, missing her vitals by a hair's breadth.

Saber took one step, then another – and soon, she was standing feet from me, her hips level with my head. Each blow she took was a punishment – a nick here, a scratch there – but those scratches added up.

They weren't _dueling_ – they were fighting a _war of attrition_ , and Saber was outmatched _._

I cursed under my breath. I needed more information, but didn't have time. Every second I delayed was another brush with death.

I needed to run with what I had.

"Saber, I think I know what spirit he is! His name is-"

Lancer cut me off with a savage roar, and my words caught in my throat. His spear leapt forward, heading straight for my exposed heart.

But Saber recovered her footing and lashed out with her blade, thrusting it between us, and snared Lancer's weapon with _Amoracchius'_ cross-guard.

I felt a wave of relief rush through me. Perhaps she wasn't so outmatched. True, Lancer had reach and raw power on his side, but Saber was _faster_ , and she had better technique.

For a moment, my hope was restored - and then, in the span of a second, Lancer crushed it.

 _Amoracchius_ was occupied with the spear that hovered inches from my vulnerable heart. So, when Lancer thrust his heavy shield towards Saber's weak spot – her face, the only inch of her _not_ covered by armor – she had no defense. The knight's eyes widened, and she sucked in a quick breath – but she didn't _move_.

I heard a loud _crack_ , and Saber stumbled backwards. I inhaled sharply, shocked.

I didn't understand it. She was fast, so why hadn't she dodged the blow? Lancer was a snail in comparison. Side-stepping the blow would have been easy, but -

\- but then I would have been left exposed. Lancer would have killed me.

 _'Sometimes, a good man must be sacrificed for the good of all.'_

He was forcing her to _choose –_ between her own life and mine.

I knew what her choice would be, and that choice had nothing to do with wanting the Grail. It didn't take a wizard's intuition to puzzle that one out. Saber was a knight, bound by a code of chivalry and honor. Whether or not I agreed with it, whether or not I allowed it, she'd choose my well-being over hers, any day of the week.

Lancer was _exploiting_ that.

Saber crumbled beneath the force of the blow. Strong or not, Servant or not, Lancer towered over her, and that _shield_ – I had no idea how much it weighed, but a love tap from that would have knocked Hendricks back to the third grade. My servant ate that shield, face-first, in a desperate bid to pull my ass out of the fire.

My thoughts raced. I needed to move. To _do_ something. I could feel the life returning to my limbs; my fingers twitched, and I managed to get a hand around my staff.

I tried standing – but couldn't. My grip slipped, ever so slightly, and I slouched, vainly trying to pull myself to my feet.

I needed time – a minute, maybe two – but Lancer didn't seem interested in providing it.

His bare knee connected with Saber's gut, buckling her over. Her breastplate absorbed most of the impact, but there was still enough force behind it to send her to her knees, gasping for air. As she fell down, I paled – the plate had dented _inwards_ , and though I couldn't see beneath it, my intuition told me that her rib cage wasn't faring much better than her armor.

Lancer's spear descended – and Saber brought up her sword to block the blow, but she was slow, dazed, and wounded. Miraculously, raised her sword in time, but there was _power_ behind the strike.

She halted Lancer's spear - and for her efforts was thrown head over heels, unable to keep her footing in the loose gravel. She stopped, suddenly and violently, by colliding with a pile of scrap metal at mach-two.

She fell to her knees, in a pose much like mine, and bowed her head.

Her sword clattered to the ground, her trembling fingers trying vainly to hold on to it.

Her battle-dress was in tatters, its royal blue edges stained brown with blood.

"Numbers are only an asset if one understands how to apply them," murmured Lancer, casually, as though he were discussing the weather. "Whether of three or three hundred, if a group does not fight as one, they are at a disadvantage, and may be crushed by a smaller force."

I saw red... and my thoughts _cleared_.

A man in his mid-forties, wearing Greek armor. A man known for his Herculean strength and endurance, able to weather countless blows without yielding, each scar a testament to battles won. A warrior, in the truest sense of the word... and, given his knowledge of tactics, not just any warrior – an officer, or a general. And what was it he'd said?

' _...Whether three or three hundred...'_

He wasn't just a warrior. He was a _warrior-king_.

"Three hundred, huh?"

Lancer glanced sideways at me, his lips twitching into a smirk.

"Ah. So, you've heard of me."

"I have, but the rumors don't do you justice. You're even more of a douche than in the movies."

Lancer's amusement faded, but his reply was cut off by a shriek - the sound of grinding metal.

I forced my head to turn.

Her breaths came in heavy, wet pants. Blood streamed from her mouth, and from a wound on her scalp, forcing her to keep an eye shut. Her battle-dress was tattered, her armor mangled and dented. Lancer had to be as strong as Berserker, maybe stronger – not as fast, but with enough intelligence to make use of that strength. He'd baited her, trapped her, _punished_ her.

But she was still _standing_.

Saber staggered to her feet, drawing up her sword in one hand, the other hanging limply by her side. Her armor dissipated into motes of magical light – given how damaged it was, there was a good chance she couldn't breathe right while wearing it, so she'd stowed it away.

Her coat – Murphy's coat – was soaked with blood, but she stood firm, her back straight, her sword raised.

"You stand a warrior," replied Lancer. "I know not your name, but you fight honorably. It's been a privilege to cross blades with you."

"Don't speak of honor," retorted Saber. "You attacked my Master, used him as a lure."

"To fight with anything less than intent to win would be dishonorable," replied Lancer, "and this is a fight to the death. Your Master knew that when he challenged me tonight."

"Then let _my_ death decide your victory," she snarled, her sea-green eyes boring holes into Lancer. "If you have any shred of honor in you – he is unable to fight. Leave him out of this."

Lancer paused, as though considering her words.

"I don't cherish the thought of killing good men, even if it must be done from time to time," he mused.

He stroked his beard, glancing between Saber and I. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Very well. I will honor your request, Saber – and, for your bravery, I will give you something more: a warrior's death."

Saber said nothing – she didn't have to. She would fight to her very last, and wouldn't make victory easy for him - but she would die.

Her final act would be that of a hero - and, like all heroes, her life would end in tragedy.

"I am a descendant of Hercules," Lancer intoned, his heavy gaze settling on Saber.

He planted his spear tip-first in the dirt, and began working at the straps securing his shield to his forearm. The massive tower shield shifted, and then fell to the earth with a loud _clang_ , burying itself into the loose gravel. The entire time, his eyes never left Saber's – but the demeanor in them changed. There was power in his voice, _real_ power.

"I am the wielder of **Chrysi Thánato** , the spear that crossed immeasurable distances and wounded the invincible god-king, _Xerxes_."

Another piece of the puzzle, falling into place. Another clue, cementing his identity. Another surge in magic. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as lighting crackled through the air.

Lancer raised his spear in a thrower's pose, and leveled the tip at Saber.

As if on cue, tendrils of white-hot lightning _exploded_ from the spear's tip, and everything else aside from his fierce expression was cast into shadow.

"I am _Leonidas_ , son of _Anaxandridas_ , the rightful _King_ of _Sparta_ - _a_ nd tonight, I am your _executioner_! _"_


	17. Chapter 17

**[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Apologies]:** A reviewer pointed out a major issue with the last chapter. I reviewed the chapter and decided it wasn't up to my standards, so I deleted the posted chapter and took some time to revise it. What you are about to read is the revised version, which flows a little more smoothly. **EVA-Saiyajin** , thank you very much for your critique.

On with the story!

* * *

Anger, hungry and powerful, rushed through me, and the Winter Mantle rose from its slumber. Sensation returned – my knees started aching, only for the pain to be washed away by a wave of icy cold that swept through my limbs.

Physically, I was still weak – I knew that much – but the Mantle _suppressed_ that weakness, if only for a time.

Time was in short supply, and if I didn't do _something_ , Saber was going to die.

I needed a plan – and in a flash of inspiration, one came to me.

It was crazy. It was stupid. It hinged on a long shot, and if I was wrong, I'd probably get killed. But, if it worked...

 _No_. I couldn't question that. It would. It _had_ to.

You see, a few years back, a crazy director with a fetish for explosions directed a movie about Leonidas and his three-hundred Spartans. I'd watched that movie quite a few times – it was one of my old apprentice's favorites, something that didn't surprise me, given her fascination with shirtless, bearded men and gratuitous violence.

Anyway. Most people aren't that familiar with Greek mythology, its history, or its heroes – but, because of that film, everyone learned the story of the Battle of Thermopylae. That modern fame added to the _legend_ of Leonidas... the same legend that shaped and defined his powers, and his _limitations_ , as a Servant.

I remembered the climactic final scene of the movie, when Leonidas had thrown his spear at Xerxes.

The shot wasn't an easy one to make. In order to strike Xerxes, the warrior-king had to remove his helmet, drop his shield, and _prepare_ , lining up his throw. During that time, he was _exposed_ , and all of his attention was focused on his target. The reason movie-Leonidas wasn't struck down before tearing Xerxes a new asshole was because he had a legion of men to protect him while his guard was lowered.

Like his Hollywood clone, this Leonidas had already dropped his shield; he'd begun preparing, channeling raw power into his spear.

But, unlike his Hollywood clone, _this_ Leonidas didn't have a legion of men watching his flank. He was _alone_.

He was _vulnerable_.

Because he was focused on his throw, his eyes were on Saber, not me. He didn't notice when I'd tensed, leaving my staff where it lay. He didn't notice when I pressed off the ground and _leaped_ forward, closing the distance between the two of us in a single bound.

He _definitely_ noticed when a steel-toed, thirty-mile-an-hour _boot_ impacted his jaw, courtesy of a pissed off, two-hundred pound wizard and his Mantle.

"This is _Chicago_!" I snarled, as Lancer's face snapped sideways beneath my heel.

* * *

I love my stompy boots. They're comfortable, and they look bad-ass. They're also pretty good at splitting ribs, should the need call for it. But against a supernatural tough guy like Lancer, I doubted they'd do any lasting damage.

In legend, Leonidas was known for his durability and grit, having drawn a line in the sand and successfully defended a mountain pass for _days_ , only falling in battle after being stabbed, cut, and then filled with arrows until his body chest cavity resembled a pincushion. I doubted anything short of decapitation would pose a threat to Lancer.

My goal wasn't to kill him, though.

His strength and durability were ridiculous, but he was still a human. His body may have been enhanced, but his _mind_ wasn't. And, like any human being, a boot to the face would prove very... _distracting_.

I'd interrupted his throw, disrupted his focus... and short-circuited his Noble-Whatsit.

The moment his concentration had faltered, all hell had broken loose. The spell he'd been working _erupted_ into an explosion of fire and lighting, one that probably registered on the Richter scale.

Better yet, his spell exploded right next to his _ear_. The result was a ham sandwich: my boot, his face, and a magical _concussion grenade_.

Mac would have been _proud_.

Sparks flew. Gravel was blasted in every direction, peppering my chest and arms. The shock of the kick sent a wave of pain straight up my leg and into my ass. I felt my teeth rattle in my jaw, and my duster whipped around me, caught in a pressure wave.

But I was prepared for that. Unlike Lancer, who'd been surprised by the blow, I'd known the drop was coming. Magic was often as powerful as it was volatile, and whatever he'd been conjuring up held a _lot_ of ju-ju. Explosions were par for the course.

The warrior-king swayed to the side, his beard singed, his face blackened by electrical burns. Intuition told me that he wouldn't be down for long, and that I needed to press my advantage. So, naturally, I did something completely suicidal.

Lancer was already off-balance from the explosion, so I forced him to the ground with a Winter-enforced kick to the back of his knee. My arms snaked around his and locked behind his muscled neck, snaring him in a viciously tight full nelson.

"Saber," I shouted, " _Go!_ "

She did. At the sound of my voice, her shocked expression was replaced with one of determination. She steadied herself, closed her sea-green eyes, and exhaled. The winds concealing her blade from view suddenly writhed, _convulsing,_ and the air was filled with a sound like thousands of chirping birds.

And then, she charged towards us, streaking across the loose gravel as fast as her feet could take her.

I just had to hold on.

If I were trying to best Lancer in a contest of brute strength, I'd lose; he was far, _far_ stronger than I was. I wasn't trying to beat him, though, just to _stall_ him, until Saber arrived to finish him off.

I had the Winter Mantle, which boosted my strength and pain tolerance to superhuman levels. I had leverage, having forced Lancer into a position that robbed him of his power. I had reach – my long, spindly arms snapped around his shoulders like anacondas, before constricting tightly and forcing his arms up and behind his head.

But, more than these things – I had _magic_ , even if I was running on fumes.

I plucked a single hair from Leonidas' head, and clasped it between my straining palms.

" _Leonidas_ ," I hissed, as I clamped down on Lancer's neck with all of my strength. The word left my lips with a whisper of power.

In life, Lancer was a normal human being: an incredibly skilled one, mind you, and brave enough to leave his mark on the history books. However, none of those books mentioned that he had any aptitude for magic. Given the ham-fisted _glamour_ he'd smacked me with not too long ago, I knew that he was a one-trick pony, much like Saber. The Grail granted him enormous power, but that power only fell within the scope of his legend.

Lancer stiffened as my magic started taking hold on him - and then, suddenly, he _heaved_ against my straining fingers.

I felt the muscles in my shoulders tearing, a sensation like cobwebs dancing across my skin, and the bones in my fingers creaking under his strength. _Hell's bells_ , I knew he was stronger than me, but to be _that_ strong – something popped in my right hand, and the pain cut me to the bone, despite the pain resistance the Mantle gave me.

" _Leonidas!_ " I cried, my voice hot and two octaves higher than I intended. The magic left me in a rush. Lancer grunted, falling to a knee, and I fell with him.

Saying his name was more difficult the second time around. My magic was being hit with resistance. _Heavy_ resistance. Lancer might not have been a wizard, but with a Will as strong as his, beating him into submission wasn't going to be an easy task.

Neither was it easy for Lancer to defend his himself, not with my knowledge of his True Name. He was forced to fight a battle on two fronts – one on his body, and one on his mind – and his split attention was all that kept him from snapping my limbs like twigs. Even so, my entire body was being forced into overdrive; I felt like I was trying to arm-wrestle a _hydraulic press_.

I didn't have an endgame. I didn't know _what_ I was doing. I just wanted to _survive_ , to _protect_ , and I hadn't given much thought to anything beyond that. An opportunity arose to subdue Lancer, and I capitalized on it; anything else would mean my death.

I took a deep breath, opening my mouth to speak his name -

Saber lunged towards us, _Amoracchius_ shrieking as it cleaved through the night air -

\- and realized I'd forgotten something _incredibly_ important.

Lancer still had his spear. His _steel-tipped_ spear. And, by dropping to his knees, he'd been put in a position to use it.

He twirled the deadly weapon in one hand, angling its point towards my shoulder.

The very reasonable fear of being skewered sent my heart racing. It also had the added benefit of giving me _just_ enough magic to overwhelm Lancer and force him into submission. All I had to do was say a word, _one word_ , and I could end the fight.

I opened my mouth -

\- and something _stopped_ me, cold in my tracks, with salvation a breath away.

Lancer's True Name hovered on the tip of my tongue, but refused to _leave_. I tried forcing more power into the words, and felt a sharp pain in my head, like someone had punched a nail clean through my temples. My lungs seized, I coughed, and my grip loosened around Lancer's neck. Lancer's arm descended, and the spear pieced my enchanted duster like it was made of wet tissue paper.

I felt a sharp _tug_ , something _snapped,_ and my vision went white with pain _._

* * *

Magically speaking, steel has a very unique property. Steel is something man-made, grounded in science, a product of advanced technology and metalworking.

It's a material that's extra-real... and as a result, its touch is like poison to the Sidhe, creatures of the Nevernever. Steel – or as they call it, cold iron - causes them extreme pain, negates their magics, and in large enough amounts can _unmake_ them. It's the milk to their orange juice. Separately, the two are just fine; put them together, and things get a little... _messy_.

Now, I'm a human being... but I've also been touched by the Sidhe. More than touched, really – I think a better term would be adopted, though Mab's so-called _affection_ is more of a curse than a blessing.

Anyway, when Lancer's spear pierced my shoulder, it did more than just hurt: it _shut down the Winter Mantle_.

The shock of it hit me like a freight train. All the strength that the Mantle provided me left in the span of a heartbeat, and my limbs were suddenly _burning_. I could feel every creaking muscle in my arms, each one trembling under the weight of Lancer's insane strength.

Lancer snapped his head back, and I saw stars. I felt like a puppet with its strings cut. I sagged, blindly, the world swimming around me. My grip went slack around his shoulders, and the cunning servant seized the advantage.

He grabbed a fistful of my duster, spun, and _tossed_ me like a garbage can into the path of Saber's charge.

She couldn't change her course; she was already airborne. So, she did what any self-respecting knight would do: she lowered her blade and took the hit, catching me in her outstretched arms. I smacked into her, my breath leaving me in a huff, and we fell to the ground in a pile of tangled limbs.

I lost track of what happened next. The darkness, and the pain, left me blind. There was a flurry of movement, and I heard a woman's voice cry out in agony. I was struck once in the face, and the force of the blow launched me head over heels, spiraling into the darkness.

It took a moment for me to regain my bearings. My hands stung, like someone had taken a belt sander to them; my head swam, and everything else ached, but my limbs felt like they were all mostly attached.

I heard footsteps. One, then two: cloth and leather, crunching gravel underfoot.

"You're a fool, Harry Dresden," said a weary voice. "But even fools can prove dangerous, if left unchecked."

I forced myself to look up, stomaching the nausea that threatened up upend my morning coffee.

Lancer loomed overhead, his features cold and chiseled.

"As per your Saber's request, I was going to spare you – but after that last stunt, you've shown you're too much of a threat to be left alive," he murmured, his golden eyes flashing like a hawk's. "I'm truly sorry."

I saw a light in the distance. Golden light – like a candle's flame, fragile and flickering, but growing brighter with each passing second, between Lancer's feet.

Maybe I'd lucked out – maybe it was the sun, rising on a new day. That was good. If I could stall for time, he'd run out of juice. And then... then, I'd...

...What could I do? What options did I have? No magic. No mantle. I'd laid every card I had on the table... and unlike Berserker, who'd toyed with me, Lancer had gone all-in.

In a matter of seconds, he'd crushed me completely. I couldn't even feel my hands anymore. I spared a glance down at them, noting clinically how they looked like purple sausages, and how my bones crackled like Pop Rocks.

At that thought, a chuckle left my parted lips, my head lolled down onto the gravel again.

The stars were still hanging in the night sky – whatever I was seeing wasn't sunlight. Lancer's spear must have pierced my lung or something, and the lack of oxygen was getting to me... I was hallucinating. Seeing that light at the end of the tunnel, that so many people describe on their deathbeds. It was a sight I was familiar with, though not one I enjoyed.

"You fought well, for a mortal," Lancer continued, and for a moment, his voice was filled with something like pride, turned bitter. "A wizard with the makings of a king. 'Tis a shame you'll never live to see your coronation."

The light grew brighter... and my frustration solidified into cold, hard _rage_. A hundred thoughts crossed my mind, but most of them revolved around wanting to kill Lancer, and knowing full well I _couldn't_.

But I'd be damned if I showed him that.

I rolled onto my stomach, sucking in quick breath as agony lanced through my shoulder. The gravel below me was stained with blood – my blood. My hands planted themselves into the loose gravel, and I forced myself onto my hands and knees. My limbs ached, but my head was clear, and I wasn't about to let a little thing like _gravity_ stop me.

I stood.

Lancer eyed me like I was some sort of man possessed. ' _Good_ ,' I thought, ' _be afraid_.'

I fumbled through my duster pocket with scalded fingers, and drew my revolver, pointing it at Lancer's chest. My would-be killer glanced between me and the gun in my trembling hand, and his eyebrows rose into his hairline.

"You expect _that_ to make a difference?"

Truthfully? I didn't.

I knew I wasn't being rational. A gun was useless against a Servant. I was going to die, and nothing could change that.

Lancer thought he was going to kill me? Fine.

I was going to make him _work_ for it.

I spat a glob of blood onto his leather Crocs – and took an unhealthy amount of satisfaction in the way his eyes narrowed.

"Fuck you, Hollywood, and the dick you rode in on," I said, my grin a little too wide to be entirely sane.

The gun in my hands _barked,_ and the recoil sent a stab of pain through my wrist and into my mangled shoulder – and, despite my best efforts, the shot went wide, skimming off the rim of Lancer's shield in a stream of sparks. In response, the servant struck in a sweeping arc, smacking the back of my mangled hand with his spear.

White-hot pain flashed through my hand -

\- in the distance, the light brightened -

\- and the revolver tumbled out of my weakened grip, clattering to the ground.

I dove for the gun, landing chest-first in the gravel. My breath left me in a huff, but I felt no pain; the Winter Mantle ensured that. The gun felt like it was leagues away, but I forced myself to scramble forward. Inch by inch, I closed the distance.

My nervous, shaking fingertips closed around the iron grip of my Dirty Harry Special - and Lancer stepped on my mangled hand, pinning me in place.

I glanced up into his eyes, and the look he gave me sent my heart into my stomach.

He tensed, the spear inches from my throat.

I closed my eyes.

And then, something _odd_ happened:

My death never came.

I swallowed thickly, and after a pregnant pause, forced an eye open.

Lancer tilted his head to the side, as though listening to the wind. A hush fell over us, and his spear hovered uncertainly at my jawline.

The spartan turned, his gaze settling on the light in the distance.

Comprehension dawned in his eyes.

In that moment, I realized three important things. The first was that _he_ could see the light too. Whatever I was seeing wasn't the hallucination of a dying mind. The second was that the light wasn't just growing brighter _-_ It was growing _closer._ The third thing – and arguably the most important – was something I'd forgotten:

 _I wasn't fighting alone._

Lancer stumbled away from me, raising his shield, panic in his eyes. The shield in his hands crackled with lightning, and as I watched, it blurred, twisting into a different form. The copper mass rounded at the edges, taking the form of a scarlet aspis, emblazoned with a giant golden lambda.

And then the light was close, _too close_ , searing itself into my retinas. The intensity of the glow forced me to close my eyes, but before I did, I thought I caught a glimpse of something – a golden blade, burning as bright as the sun.

In that moment, a profound sensation of calmness – certainty – washed over me. Something in my head clicked into place, a puzzle piece that had been missing.

... _my body -_

\- _is made of_ █████...

Everywhere the sword's light touched felt stronger. My limbs were suddenly weightless, my pains receding; the corpses that littered around me were swallowed by the light, and for just a moment, it was like they were all distant shadows, remnants of some bad dream.

 _..._ steel is my _████, and -_

\- ████ _is my blood..._

The blade descended, gleaming like a beacon in the night; its wielder cried out, in a voice that _thrummed_ with magic.

" **Caliburn!** "

* * *

There was a deafening explosion of light and sound. The wind whipped around me like a cocoon; I was in the eye of a storm, untouched by the burning light. Static crackled and popped all around me, the sensation of raw, pure magic overwhelming all conscious thought. I felt like I was adrift in a sea of magic, a magic so powerful, so pure, so _beautiful_ that it could never be repeated, never be imitated.

The light faded. The wind died. The magic released me from its grip.

I opened my eyes, and stared up at my savior.

Her hair had been torn free of its braid by the hurricane-force winds, and splayed about her head like a halo. She looked like some artist's rendition an avenging angel, minus the wings. Her face streaked with blood and dirt, and her clothing in tatters.

The winds cloaking _Amoracchius_ from sight had been dispelled, revealing the hand-and-a-half sword in all of its glory. The blade was _burning_ with golden fire, its steel singing with the power of Faith magic – and as I watched, that power faded, seeping back into the blade.

I glanced at the space between her feet, and noted the _trench_ that extended from where the point of her sword met the hard ground: a cone of scorched earth, molten metal, and half-formed glass that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.

Lancer was kneeling in that trench, some twenty feet away.

His once-pristine leather armor hung off of his muscled figure in tatters, its edges blackened and scarred by the intense heat. His shield arm was contorted in a way that reminded me of a bendy straw. The monstrous copper aspis, his ultimate defense, hung limply by his side.

A diagonal line had been drawn across Lancer's body, from shoulder to hip, and its edges looked... _crispy._ My stomach lurched at the sight of his wounds, skin and bone alike blackened in the blaze. I was pretty sure I could see his _spine_.

His head was bowed forward, as though on an executioner's block. I couldn't see his eyes – they were shielded by his the tips of his graying hair – but there was no way he was still alive. Nothing could survive the kind of blast that Saber had hit him with. I was dead sure of it.

That is, until he _spoke_.

"I'm... impressed," grunted Lancer, as though he _hadn't_ just been on the receiving end of a mortal blow. He hefted his spear, using it like a crutch, and climbed to his feet. His salt-and-pepper beard was flecked with blood, and his face was blackened with soot.

"...How?" Saber whispered, her eyes wide with surprise.

"A Spartan is not so easily killed," the spearman replied, as though having his internal organs _cauterized_ was an everyday occurrence.

He grimaced, and brought a hand to his exposed ribs. "Unfortunately, even _my_ endurance has limits. Your power was great enough to overwhelm the greatest defense I could muster... and I don't think I'll be able to regenerate from these wounds."

"Do not doubt your strength," Saber said, raising _Amoracchius_ up to Lancer's appraising eyes. "You were a worthy opponent; few Servants could hope to stand against this blade."

I raised an eyebrow, glancing between Saber and the sword in her hands. I was pretty sure _Amoracchius_ didn't shoot _golden death beams_ , but what did I know? The Holy Grail War had thrown everything else into question.

She pointedly ignored my gaze, keeping hers firmly on Lancer.

"Indeed," mused Lancer, "and such power comes at a price. But I'm sure you know that, don't you?"

"It was a sacrifice willingly made," retorted my Servant.

"And yet, the world you wish for remains unattainable."

 _Amoracchius_ glinted in the firelight. Saber stood between us, silent and unmoving.

There it was again – that same sadness, that same wistful look, that I'd seen back at the Carpenter's place. Saber glanced down at her sword, bowing her head.

"Perhaps. Then again, that is what the Grail exists for, is it not? To grant foolish wishes?"

Lancer gave Saber a look like a father might give their favored daughter; he smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

"Shouldered with an impossible task, and willing to sacrifice your life in pursuit of it." He eyed Saber approvingly. "I would have been honored to know you in life."

As he spoke, the fight seemed to drain out of him, and his shield slipped from his broken arm, tumbling to the earth.

It faded into stardust before it hit the ground.

Saber's gaze softened, and she lowered her sword. "...I would like to apologize. It is customary of a knight to offer their name, when one is offered in kind. In that respect, I have failed."

"No need. Your **Caliburn** has told me everything I need to know," murmured Lancer. His aged eyes turned skyward, _searching_ – for what, I couldn't be sure.

"Perhaps," he mused, his golden orbs settling on me, "this world has hope after all."

His body rippled, as the magics creating it started to unravel. Motes of flame rippled and pulsed beneath his skin, beneath his armor – and his limbs started to blacken and peel away, like paper scraps thrown into a bonfire, floating up into the night sky.

Lancer sighed.

"My loss is clear. Reinforcements, long awaited, never arrived. Fate, it seems, has a sense of irony."

He folded his arms over his muscled chest.

"For me, the war is over. But, if I could make one wish, it would be this."

His eyes fell on me, and I felt the weight of an empire behind his gaze.

" _Win_ , Harry Dresden."

With that final command, Leonidas, Lancer of the Holy Grail War, died.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Story Notes]:** That concludes the fight against Servant Lancer. I hope it's lived up to your expectations! I had a hard time writing this scene - I realized that the amount of detail, magic theory and story that I wanted to convey would take significantly more than one chapter, and it took several attempts to write everything down.

 **[Lancer's Strength]:** Leonidas is one of the strongest defensive Heroic Spirits. He's a descendant of Hercules and a born tactician who grows stronger when outnumbered or fighting against a superior force. In the case of this battle, Lancer was able to force Harry and Saber on the ropes for these reasons. Additionally, neither Saber nor Harry worked together. They are strong individually, but lacked cohesion as a team, something Lancer was able to exploit. However, as the fight progressed, Saber got the drop on Lancer and was able to deploy her Noble Phantasm, Caliburn, which turned the tide of the battle. Lancer survived the blow, and in all likelihood could have continued fighting, but he would have died regardless; his endurance would have simply prolonged the inevitable. However, he chose to let Saber and Harry live, for reasons that are his own. I'll give you a hint: it has something to do with his personal morality, his Master, what side she's on in the war.

 **[True Names]:** Many readers speculated in the reviews section that Harry would attempt to use Lancer's True Name against him. That's very true. Harry has used True Names to subdue opponents in the past. However, there's a lot of magic theory from both universes that plays into why True Names wouldn't work on a Servant. I'll be going into that in the next chapter. I don't really enjoy writing magic theory stories, but for the sake of understanding the mechanics of the Grail War, it needs to happen.

 **[Music]:** I'm constructing a playlist for the story. If anyone's interested, check my profile for music related to the characters! I find that listening to music really helps inspire me in the writing process, and it might make the read more enjoyable for you readers. I've also linked a **Dresden Files music video** , for those of you who have never read the series and want some idea of what it's about.

 **[A Personal Request]:** I'm searching for someone willing to draw a picture of Harry, Murphy, and Saber standing together. I don't have a lot of money right now, but I'm sure we could work something out if you'd like compensation. Feel free to message me, I check my inbox decently often and I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can.

 **[Thank You]:** Once again, thank you very much for reading and reviewing! Your guys are awesome. I'd also like to give a special shout-out to **Parks98** , The **A-Demonbane** , and **Balthanon** for their insightful commentary and continued support!


	18. Chapter 18

_22:13._

The numbers, neon-green, flashed on the broken display.

The clock was broken, as was... well, everything else, really.

The Chevy we'd _acquired_ from the scrap heap had seen better days. Its auburn paint had faded to a dull, rusty orange, the front bumper was smashed inwards. Think Dukes of Hazard. It didn't have heat, and in absence of a functioning lock, the passenger-side door was secured with a length of cheap para-cord, the kind you buy by the yard at Home Depot.

I had four wheel drive, though. And, as they say, beggars can't be choosers.

We'd needed to high-tail it out of there. The laser beams, explosions and magical nukes were like beacons of magic, bound to attract all sorts of attention, most of it bad. Worse still, I barely had enough juice to open a way, and I doubted we'd be able to make it home safely through the Nevernever, given how battered we were.

Saying that we looked like _Walking Dead_ extras would be an understatement.

Neither of us had cell phones, and I had no idea where the nearest pay phone was. So, I'd convinced Saber that the only option left was to swipe a car. She hadn't been particularly excited about theft, even if said car was meant for the scrap heap, but she'd agreed.

On one condition: she was going to drive.

I wasn't sure why the car wasn't _exploding_ at her touch, let alone _how_ she could drive a car in the first place, but I held my tongue. Surprise, surprise, she handled the beater like a pro; her touched seemed to breathe life into the machine, rousing the hunk of twisted metal, choking and sputtering, from its slumber. Her fingers danced over the manual transmission, seamlessly shifting gears and handling the icy roads like she was _born_ behind the wheel.

Instead of gawking like an idiot, I turned my eyes to the window, and let my cheek rest against the cool glass. Snow now whipped through the night air, dancing across the glass. The street signs we passed seemed to blur together into a haze of green and white.

 **Caliburn**. The name – the battle cry - echoed through my mind. The memory of that holy power washed over me, and set my heart beating thunderously. It was a powerful name – a _familiar_ name. I knew I'd heard it somewhere before, but for the life of me, I couldn't place it.

We drove by a chapel – red-brick, with white trim and decorated with stained-glass windows - and I thought of Michael.

He was a Knight of the Cross, and he knew everything there was to know about his faith. If Jesus Christ picked his nose, Michael could tell you where, when, how much, and whether or not he struck oil. And in spite of knowing _everything_ – the ups and downs of the Church, its flaws and shortcomings – his faith didn't waver.

I envied that kind of certainty.

He'd been the latest owner of **Caliburn** , _Amoracchius_ , whatever you want to call it, before Saber had taken up the blade in defense of Murphy and I earlier in the week. He'd known everything there was to know about the blade: how to use it, how it was made, and even its... previous... owners.

Wait. _Hold the_ _phone_.

I stiffened, and glanced sharply at Saber, my head snapping to the side hard enough to give me whiplash.

It had been a while since Michael had mentioned it, so I could have had the details a little mixed up, but... the way he told it, _Amoracchius_ was an old blade. I'm talking _really_ old – as in, _people still thought the earth was flat_ old. It had been passed down for hundreds of years, from one Knight to the next, to fight against the Fallen and everything else that crawled in the dark.

It wasn't always a 'holy sword', not in the traditional sense. Before it was reforged with a nail from the Cross, it went by another name. A very _famous_ name. And its owner was even _more_ famous – someone with a legend of glory, chivalry, who spent most of their life on a personal quest to find the Holy Grail.

"...Yes?" The knight asked, her emerald orbs settling on me.

I stared at Saber. Hard. Then, my gaze fell on the blade in the backseat.

Something in my brain short-circuited.

" _Hell's bells_ ," I breathed.

Saber had said that the Fate had brought the two of us together. There was more to the story – I _knew_ it. Because **Caliburn** was _inside_ the circle with Murphy and I when I'd panicked and performed an accidental summoning. In that moment, it was more than just a sword: It was a _sacrifice of knowledge_ , an artifact that magically resonated with the Heroic Spirit I'd pulled from the Throne and into the mortal world.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there, my gaze boring into Saber, but I suddenly understood what it was like to be a prepubescent girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

"...I take it, from the way you're staring at me, that you've discerned my identity as well," murmured Saber. She tilted her head to the side. "I'm surprised it took you this long. You uncovered Lancer's within minutes of meeting him."

My jaw dropped open, and I pointed a shaking finger at the woman sitting next to me. Then, I lowered my hand, collapsed bonelessly into my seat, and stared listlessly at the dashboard.

"Arthur Pendragon _– King of Knights – The Once and Future King -_ is a _woman_... and she drives _stick,"_ I stammered.

"It's a class ability," she replied. "I can 'ride' anything short of a magical beast."

My head swam.

I'm somewhat familiar with Arthurian lore. If the White Council were a college course, history would be a required minor, and _Le Morte d'Artur_ would be on the list of must-buy reading material. After all, the White Council was founded – and the accords were originally signed – around his time. That's why we call our head honcho the _Merlin_.

Carrying on. As a wizard and detective, I pay attention to fine details, especially where spells and contracts are concerned. **Caliburn** was enchanted and placed in a stone, and a competition was issued all across the Britain. If I remember right, it went something like _'Whoever pulls the sword from the stone shall be the rightful king of Britain'_.

Now, I'm not sure what criteria **Caliburn** used to declare kingship... but nowhere in the Camelot Terms of Service was _gender_ mentioned as a pre-req.

If by some chance a woman _had_ drawn the sword from the stone, she never would have been accepted as King, not in that day and age. In some sects, women were treated like property. Royal women in particular were like livestock, bartered and traded to cement alliances and win wars. So, had a woman drawn the sword, she would have needed to disguise herself as a man in order to win over her people and united them against the Saxons.

King Arthur, in modern lore, is described as _eternally young and beautiful_... and since eternal youth is beyond the reach of most modern wizards, and King Arthur wasn't a vampire... it was probably because _he_ was a _she._ With a little help from Merlin – the original Merlin, not the political hack in charge of the modern White Council – it was entirely possible that she could have pulled off the disguise.

I had a hundred questions, each more profound than the last. _Did they have cars in Camelot_? _Have you ever seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Did the saxons invent the saxophone? Can I have your autograph?_

Instead, I settled on a timeless classic. " _What the fuck?_ "

"You have the uncanny ability to convey so much emotion in so few words," she replied.

"It's called evocation _,_ and it's one of my many talents. Comes with being a wizard."

Saber rolled her eyes in a very un-knightly fashion.

"...Speaking of. Murphy's gonna have a field day when she finds out. Charity, too," I giggled. "You're a feminist's wet dream, you know. An inspiration to little girls everywhere. Who wants to be a princess when you can be a king? Smash the patriarchy!"

Saber scowled, and brushed a strand of blood-soaked hair out of her eyes. "It's better if you don't tell anyone. The fewer people that know, the safer we all are."

We hit a pot-hole, and a stabbing pain shot through my arm, too sharp to be brushed aside by the Mantle.

"Believe me, there's no keeping secrets from Murphy," I hissed, clutching at my throbbing shoulder. "I've tried. But, as Sanya says - she's _tiny, but fierce_. Better to just... tell her, get it over with."

"Fine. Do what you think is best, Master."

I winced.

"I thought we talked about this. My name's _Harry,_ " I groaned.

"As you say," Saber conceded.

That's when I noticed it. Her hands were tight – too tight – on the steering wheel. Her jaw was set in a very Murphy-like fashion. She'd been pointedly looking everywhere but at me, and she'd barely said a word that wasn't shop talk.

My mirth died as quickly as it had come, and I suddenly had the nagging suspicion that I'd pissed her off.

"...Hey. You alright?" I asked.

"I'll be better after a night's rest," she muttered, her sea-green eyes scanning the road ahead. "I don't regenerate as fast as Berserker, but with a little time, I should be able to-"

"Look, that's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," I said, frowning. "You're a good swordsman, but a terrible liar. Spill."

"We'll talk later," she replied, evading my eyes.

"Look, it's not like we're going to have much privacy at the Carpenter's," I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my duster. "If it's something serious, let's talk about it now. "

Saber weighed my words for half a second. Then, she set her shoulders, and cranked the steering wheel to the right. Gravel crunched beneath the tires of the rust bucket as it slid to a stop in the ankle-deep slush.

* * *

I didn't realize how loud the engine was until it had stopped running – or just how _dark_ it was that night. But when she killed the engine and pulled the keys, we were suddenly swimming in blackness.

I waited for her to speak – and I didn't have to wait long.

"You dishonor yourself," she began, speaking in a hushed whisper. "Your daughter said that you were a good man. And in speaking with you, I came to believe that, too. But what I've seen, what I've _felt_..."

Her knuckles went white around the steering wheel, and for a moment, I thought she was going to _break_ it.

"Uh..." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "This is a little... out of left field. What are you talking about?"

"Leonidas. You used his _name,_ " she snapped. The blood stains on her clothing, the dirt on her cheeks, and the dark circles around her eyes did little to diminish the conviction in her voice. She glowered at me, her emerald orbs alight with fury, in a way I'd never expected. I hadn't seen Saber angry before, but in that moment, I felt like the shorter woman towered over me.

Somehow, I _knew_ I'd fucked up.

"Well, yeah," I said, blinking owlishly. "I did. What about it?"

"He gave it, as he was honor-bound to do. And you used it to meddle with his _mind,_ " she said, like she was talking to a third-grader.

"Hold on," I said, holding up a hand to calm her. "I was trying to _save you._ Because he's a spirit, and not living, using his True Name isn't considered black magic by the Council. It's not in violation of any of the Laws of Magic."

She batted my hand aside.

"I thought you were a wizard, not a lawyer," Saber replied, her gaze narrowing. "Yet, you're using a legal technicality to justify your actions."

My response died in my throat. I found myself drawn to her eyes, but forced myself to look away. My gaze settled on the tip of her nose, but that didn't save me from the wrath inside those piercing emerald orbs. They judged me – and found me _wantin_ g.

"Yesterday, you told me that I was not a tool in your eyes, but a person. You assured me that everyone should have the right to make their own choices," she hissed. "Lancer and I are no mere shades – we are Heroic Spirits, and you pledged not to interfere with any being's free will. But on the battlefield, you attempt to do so, and then defend your actions by claiming that he _isn't living_. Do you mean to say that he is not a _person,_ and therefore your actions are _acceptable_? Were your words to me, this morning, a _lie_?"

 _Betrayal._ I could feel the hurt in her voice, and guilt gnawed at my belly.

I glanced away, scowling, and brought a hand to my pounding head. "It's not the same."

"You're right. It isn't." Her eyes narrowed. "You summoned me, and I agreed to fight for you of my own free will. Lancer made no such agreement; he opposed you. Does his allegiance make tampering with his free will _acceptable_? Does morality only matter to you when it's _convenient?_ "

I couldn't... I couldn't fight her. It was an argument I couldn't win... and that _frustrated_ me. I sucked in a quick breath between my teeth.

"I saved your _life_ ," I snapped. "You're welcome."  
 _  
"_ I don't _need_ to be saved," she retorted, her sea-green eyes flashing with anger. "I'm a warrior and a king, not some helpless, doe-eyed maiden to be swept off her feet."

"Could've fooled me," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "You were getting your ass kicked out there. I should know – I got mine handed to me by the same guy who _fed you his shield_."

She turned away from me, clenching her fists on her knees. "Worse, you've sold your soul for _power_. I saw the way the cursed power of Winter affected you, saw that look in your eyes. I _felt_ it, eating away at your _mind_ , through the bond of our Command Seals."

She glared at me. "It is a _curse_. It _taints_ you, and you let it. For the sake of that dark power, you put your _life_ at risk-"

"My life is the _least_ of my concerns," I spat. She recoiled like she'd just taken a fist to the gut. Her eyes widened; disbelief, anger, and something else swirled in those emerald orbs in a way that I absolutely hated.

"There are _worse_ fates than death. I should know, I've already died _twice!"_ I snapped, glaring at her with as much rage as I could stomach. The blood loss made me light headed, but I pressed on, my anger giving me the crutch I needed to hobble on. _"_ And yet, here I am, with a _hole_ in my shoulder and a voice in my head telling me to _slaughter_ anything that gets in my way. Because if I'm _not_ here, if I'm _not_ making deals with the devil, everyone else gets killed."

Saber scoffed. "I may be unfamiliar with this era, Master, but I am not naive. That logic is nothing more than twisted _hubris_ , the sort that tyrants use to justify their reign. What would your daughter think, if she knew what the Mantle is doing to you? What would Maggie think if she knew what you've _done_?"

I thought of _Susan_...

… and my fraying self-control _snapped._

"You don't know _shit,_ " I snarled.

"And _why_ , pray tell, is that?" She asked, her lips pressed into a hard line, her eyes boring holes into me, daring me to keep talking.

I didn't talk. I _exploded_.

"Because you're a _Servant!_ " I snapped. "Bench pressing cars and tossing out death beams like it's _child's play_. You don't _have_ to compromise for power. You just _have_ it. But me – I'm no Servant, I'm a fucking _human,_ one among _billions_ on this planet."

I had plenty of ammunition, and the pressure was too much. My voice was rising – booming like thunder in the confines of the tiny car. All of the rage and frustration, the helplessness I'd felt during the battle, reared its ugly head, and wanted _out_.

"I don't have the power of a _god_. I don't know what fantasy world you came from, but in Chicago, things are a little _different_. Fallen Angels and Fomor dick around with little kids, the Big Man Upstairs prefers to take a _side seat_ , and the only ones standing between the monsters in the dark and the rest of humanity are people like _me_."

"T-That's..." Saber stammered. I'd completely lost my cool, and I couldn't bring myself to care. My heart pounded in my chest, beating away like a double-bass at a Metallica concert, fast and _angry_. I wanted to burn something, rend something into pieces with my bare hands.

The Winter Mantle had nothing to do with that anger – it was all _me_.

"You're _right_ ," I snapped. "My hands are _blood-stained_. I'm _not_ a good person. But Murphy, Maggie, Michael – _they are_. The people of _my_ city – _they are_. Stars and stones, I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure they _stay that way_. You hear me? _Fuck the consequences._ "

Saber's eyes widened. Her hands stilled. Her knee stopped bouncing. Her breath hitched – and she bowed her head, staring at her knees, her expression _haunted_.

Haunted with r _egret..._ and with _understanding_.

"...I see," she whispered.

The anger bled out of me as quickly as it had come. I'd won... for what good that had done me. I'd made my point, and in the process, I'd shouted down a woman half my size, the very same woman who'd saved my life repeatedly and offered to drive me home because I was too much of an idiot to know when I was outgunned.

"...I'm sorry," I said, forcing my fists to un-clench. All of my years suddenly crept up on me, and a wave of exhaustion smacked into me with the subtlety of a freight train. I slouched in my seat, drawing into my coat like a turtle into its shell.

"Don't be," Saber whispered. She looked away. "You've been through hell."

I was acutely reminded that she was far older than she appeared. She'd spent a thousand years in the Throne of Heroes, so even though she appeared like a woman in her late twenties... the way she held herself, the depth of the pain – and sympathy – in her voice were too much for me to bear.

There was a story. Something she wasn't telling me, something that was heavy on her mind. I'd glimpsed it once, when we'd first spoken, and again when Lancer had been defeated. But it wasn't any of my business; I felt like if I pushed the envelope, she'd shut me down. I'd already caused her enough pain.

"What you did... I can understand an act of self-sacrifice. However, I don't understand why you'd attempt to compromise another person's free will." She turned her eyes on me.

"...It was stupid," I said, frowning. "I didn't think about it, I just did it. It was the only option I could think of at the time. As far as I was concerned, it was either him or you. And I just... _reacted_."

Saber nodded slowly, closing her eyes.

"You thought using his Name was your only option. That isn't the case. If we're ever in a situation that dire, instead of trying to control someone else, control _me_. Use a Command Seal. I _want you to_ , should the need arise. Just..."

She trailed off, and then shook her head. "Please. Promise me you won't do that again."

I sighed quietly.

I still didn't think what I'd done was wrong. Using his True Name didn't bother me in the slightest. Even though I hadn't succeeded, I'd still distracted him, and both of us had made it out relatively intact. Far too many allies, friends - lovers - had died around me, and I didn't want to see the same happen to Saber. Yeah, I didn't know her that long, but after everything we'd been through together, she'd at least earned the title of Battle Buddy.

I'd burned too many bridges already. Maybe it was time I stopped. Maybe it was time to _trust_ in someone who'd had my back, someone who, for better or worse, was willing to give me control of her soul.

"I promise," I murmured, running a hand through my matted hair. "I'll skip the True Names, and if I need to, I'll use a Command Seal."

"Good," she replied.

After a pregnant pause, she straightened in her seat.

"...We should return to the Carpenters' and have your wound inspected," she said, glancing pointedly at my shoulder. "Left untreated, a cut can fester. Carelessness is the enemy."

"Yeah," I mumbled, looking away. I couldn't bring myself to look at her – what I'd said was weighing too heavily on my mind. Right or not, cathartic or not, I still felt like trash for shouting at her.

She put the keys back into the ignition – but hesitated before starting up the car.

"Oh, and before I forget," she mused, "you were wrong about one thing."

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eyes.

"My name is Arturia."

The car roared to life, and for the first time since we'd met, she smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

I sucked in a quick breath, and broke into a cold sweat. It took everything I had in me not to kick out at my attacker, as the blade broke skin, drawing blood. The Mantle sputtered and died as cold iron broke skin, my body roared with agony, and for the hundredth time that night, I was convinced I was going to die.

 _Stab._

"Ow!"

"Remind me again why you're not using anesthetic?" Saber's eyes, as worried as her voice, traced the gaping wound in my shoulder.

"Blood loss," Murphy said tersely. "Anything strong enough to dull the pain would lower his blood pressure. I don't think he needs a heart attack right now, do you?"

She pulled the stitches taught with a sharp jerk, sending a wave of crippling pain through me.

"So," I hissed, "this has absolutely _nothing_ to do with tonight? Leaving you behind, not calling, fighting another servant?"

"Nope," Murphy drawled, fixing her icy orbs on me. "Nothing at all."

 _Stab._ The needle bit into my shoulder again, and I bit back a curse.

Saber and I made it back to the Carpenters', pulling into the driveway just after midnight. The lights were still on, and a shadow paced back and forth in the kitchen – a very _familiar_ shadow. As I approached the door, a chill settled in to my spine, and it wasn't caused by the winter winds.

The door opened before we got inside. Murphy stood in front of us, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting flannel pajamas, with Ilya's wooden skull in one hand and a bottle of _Jack Daniels_ in the other.

Her eyes were sunken with fatigue – and her glare was positively murderous. We'd stood there, in her doorway, shuffling awkwardly in the cold... and Murphy was suddenly all business. She gave myself and my Servant a once-over, before ushering us inside, slamming the door and racking the deadbolt with an ominous _clack_.

From the beginning, I knew I was screwed. But as her tired eyes traced the hole in my shoulder, her gaze flickered with concern... and for a heartbeat, I thought she'd show me mercy. For a moment, I relaxed.

Then, out came the needles. As the saying goes: out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

 _Stab._

"You're so incredibly helpful _, sweetie_ ," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm glad you're having – _ack_! - a good time. Can't you just, I don't know, use a plastic needle or something? Pretty please?"

"Nope," she said. She licked her lips and leaned in closer to the wound, focusing intently on her needlework. The stench of alcohol on her breath was strong enough to make my eyes water, but her fingers were as steady as always. "Don't have any, and they're harder to sterilize. Getting patched up, only to keel over from gangrene – that would be a really shitty way to go, wouldn't it?"

I glanced up at Saber, giving her my best puppy-dog eyes – and the knight flushed, before glancing away. "As much as it pains you, Harry, it's safer this way. Infection is the enemy."

 _Stab.  
_  
"So is cold iron," I whined. My fingers went knuckle-white on the counter-top, and I took a shuddering breath. " _Murph_ -"

"Suck it up, you big baby," replied Murphy, unphased. She reached for the bottle beside her, took a swig from it – and then held it out, tipping it over the open wound.

It hurt. A _lot._

"I'm doing this because I care," she said, conversationally. "Maybe if you'd brought me along, you wouldn't be sporting a new asshole, and I wouldn't be sewing it shut." Her voice was as dry as a desert – but I knew the look in her eyes. She was seriously pissed, and her 'help' was her way of getting even.

Of course, she didn't _need_ to sew it shut. My newfound healing ability would probably take care of the injury after a good night's rest, but.. well, I didn't want to tell her about it. Even as the needle pierced my shoulder, setting my nerves alight with pain and filling my vision with white spots, I held my tongue. It didn't want to worry Murphy any more than I had.

 _Stab._

"Hell's Bells," I cursed, as the needle pierced my shoulder yet again. "Murph, I'm sorry, alright? Things didn't work out like I'd hoped, and I didn't have any way to contact you. I'll... change it up, next time. Plan ahead and prepare. Hell, I'll see if I can find a burner phone – maybe I can find an older model that won't go _Death Star_ on me."

The sadistic blonde hummed thoughtfully, pinning me in place and making me sweat with those frigid eyes of hers – and then she nodded sharply. "I'll forgive you... on one condition. Promise me. The next time you go out, I'm coming with." Her tone left no room for compromise.

"Murph, that's not a promise I can make."

 _Stab._ I flinched, and nearly bit clean through my tongue.

"Why not?" She asked, her gaze boring holes in me.

"I don't want to see you get hurt," I said, stammering. "You saw what Berserker can do. Even with my magic, I'm totally outclassed. And you know me – I'm no pushover."

Murphy rolled her eyes. Not even five years ago, she would have shouted me down – but time had mellowed her out, and given her an understanding of the supernatural world that few non-magicals ever had. "That's why you need me. I can drive a car, scout, talk to people. I don't need to move around too much when I've got a rifle in my hands, and you know I'm a damned good shot. Long as my leg's braced, it isn't a liability."

"It is," I said shortly, meeting her sharp glare with a steady gaze of my own. I swallowed thickly, and forced myself to continue. "And it could get you killed. I'm not going to put anyone else in harm's way, fighting my battles, especially not you, Murph."

"They're my battles, too. And, God as my witness, Dresden, I'll shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be coughing up laces if you don't cut the arrogant _bullshit_." She ran a hand through her dirt blonde locks, and let out a frustrated grunt. "What's gotten into you? You're backsliding. We got over this hurdle years ago, remember? This isn't your fight – it's ours, and we fight our battles together. If you can't rely on me... who can you rely on?"

I folded my arms across my chest, and stared uncomfortably at the floor.

"This battle isn't like the ones we've fought before," I said. "The game has changed, in ways that I still can't wrap my head around. There are so many unknowns at play, and as a wizard, that scares me."

I let out a slow breath, and tried to measure out my words carefully. "I can pull every trump card in the book and still get flattened if I'm not careful. And that's when I'm at my best. Knowing that, I can't put you at risk. I'd feel a lot better if you were safe."

Murphy's eyes narrowed – and she suddenly lost her cool.

"That's how it always is," she snapped. "I don't care about how it makes you feel, Dresden. This is war. I'm not going to sit on the sidelines, and I won't take that patronizing bullshit from anyone, especially not from you."

"I'm not patronizing you," I protested, holding up my hands. "Believe me, I'm not. Murphy, I've watched you fight for years, I know how much ass you can kick. You earned your bad bitch certificate, like, ten years ago. And I'm telling you, as the guy who watched you shred a troll with a chainsaw in the parking lot of Home Depot, _this fight_ _is out of your league_."

I wasn't sure whose glare scared me more, Lancer's or Murphy's.

"Don't ' _Murphy_ ' me," she growled. She slammed her closed fist down on the countertop, and the loudness - the suddenness of it - made me flinch. "I'm a big girl, Dresden, and I know my own limits. My leg's not working right, but that doesn't mean provide tactical support or talk you down when you're about to do something incredibly stupid. Which has been happening a lot more lately, now that I think about it."

I grimaced. "But-"

"-Harry, if I may," Saber interrupted. For a minute there, I'd forgotten about her entirely. While Murphy was stitching me up, the knight had been standing by the sliding door, peering through the glass. Whether she was standing guard, or enjoying the snowfall, I wasn't sure – but her expression was thoughtful.

I swallowed my reply, and let her speak.

"It would be advantageous to have someone at a distance, observing the battlefield," she said, folding her hands behind her back. "Someone without magical potential of their own, who would likely be overlooked by most servants. Someone who could provide transportation and fire support, gather information, and evacuate innocents. There would, of course, be an element of risk - but it would not be so high as you believe."

Murphy blinked, before eyeing Saber with surprise, with disbelief – and with a measure of respect. "Damned straight."

Saber raised an eyebrow, her expression stoic, but within it I saw a faint glimmer of amusement. "She cares for your well-being, Harry. I doubt you're going to be able to dissuade her from this course of action. It's best to work together. Otherwise, you'll simply be stepping on each other's toes."

Her sea-green eyes settled on me, as piercing as they were bright.

If that wasn't a subtle dig, I don't know what was. Our performance against Lancer came to mind, and I winced. ' _Score one for the away team.'_

"Yeah, but -"

"Harry," Murphy interrupted, in a sing-song voice, brandishing the sewing needle just a _hair_ too close to my face. "Think very carefully about the next word that comes out of your mouth. Otherwise, I'm going to sew it shut."

Needless to say, I did.

"...Alright," I sighed. "Next time, Murph, you're coming with." And then my gaze narrowed. "But you're _not_ gonna be fighting on the front-lines. You'd be a sitting duck out there, and the last thing I want is Berkserker or one of the other Servants gunning for you."

A heavy silence fell as Murphy finished stitching up my wound. Her needlework was faster, more precise – and slightly more gentle, for what it was worth. Taking the wire between her teeth, she pulled it taught, knotted it off – and cut it with the serrated edge of a military-issue _Kabar_ knife.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," she said, at last. She sighed, tiredly, and fixed me with a look that was somewhere between apathy, affection, and murderous intent. "Oh, and before I forget. Don't pull this shit again. I've almost lost you twice in the last two days. One more time and I'll kill you myself."

"Noted," I said, meeting her gaze with one of my own. After a brief moment, she glanced away, and jerked her chin towards the other side of the kitchen. "Beer's on the table. Leftovers are in the fridge. Eat slow, and keep your fluids up. If you pass out, I'm not dragging your ass to bed."

"Thanks, Murph," I said. I hopped off the counter-top, and pulled a loose cotton t-shirt over my head, being careful to avoid agitating my shoulder wound. "You're the best."

I couldn't see them, but I could feel her eyes rolling at my back. It was a nice feeling.

I stumbled over to the fridge and popped it open, wincing at the harsh glare of the light within. Fishing around blindly, my fingers wrapped around the lip of a brown paper sack, marked 'Harry', in Murphy's loopy handwriting.

A bag with the Macannally's logo stamped onto its front.

"Karrin Murphy," I said, quietly.

"...That's my name." Our eyes locked – and there was a note of muted concern in her baby blues. "What is it?"

I pulled out the bag, holding it up for our mutual inspection, and sighed theatrically. "You are the most beautiful human being in recorded history."

Fishing blindly through the paper sack, I pulled out one of Mac's famous steak sandwiches, and slapped it on a plate with extra gusto. Next thing I knew, it was in the microwave, and I was pushing a bunch of random buttons, in the desperate hope that one of them might heat my sandwich.

As luck would have it, my prayers were answered – because I 'd burned most of my energy in the fight against Lancer, disrupting his _glamour,_ and didn't have enough juice to fry everything around me. The microwave beeped once, then twice, and it flickered to life.

I started to shaking with eager anticipation, like an oversized Chihuahua, as my sandwich spun lazy circles on the other side of the glass.

"Only recorded?" Murphy asked, tucking a stray lock behind her ear – and she sighed tiredly. "Dresden, I can't believe you think so little of me. And after all we've been through, too."

"Sorry for the misunderstanding," I said, grinning. I leaned back against the stovetop, my foot bouncing impatiently. "Guess I'll have to make it up to you. How about a steak dinner?"

She shook her head, grimacing. "Mac's isn't the only restaurant in Chicago, you know."

"Blasphemy," I scoffed. "But no, I'm talking about an actual steak dinner. When all this business is finished, we could find some swanky dive somewhere. You know, where they've got top hats, live entertainment, umbrellas in the drinks, and... whatever it is rich people do. Caviar, I guess."

"I don't think anyone 'does' caviar, Dresden," Murphy said, crossing her arms. Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. "And I'm pretty sure you just want to see me in a dress."

"Strangely enough, yes." I gave her a sly grin. "But I'd settle for seeing you out of one."

My favorite blonde – not that she'd ever consent to the title - snorted. "Please. Is _that_ what you call a pickup line?"

"That depends," I replied, unphased. "Is it working?"

"It might have worked, if you weren't covered in blood, and if you didn't smell like a trash compactor. Kind of kills the mood."

"Hey, it worked for Han," I said, grinning lopsidedly. "And it _really_ worked for Leia. I'm not seeing the problem here."

Murphy tapped her chin thoughtfully, and her lips twitched into a smirk. "Tell you what. I'm fresh out of high-tension wire - used up the last of it against Berserker. How about a trip to _Cabella's_ instead?"

"Counter-offer," I said, folding my hands diplomatically. "Why not both?"

A smirk slowly split her lips. Her eyes flashed with mirth – and with something else, something smokey and dark and probably illegal.

"You drive a hard bargain," she drawled. "But... if you insist."

Conversation halted as the microwave let out a highly-anticipated beep.

I spun on my heel, swiped open the door, and grabbed my sandwich in the time it would take most men to blink. The smell of cooked steak hit my nose like a sledgehammer, and my stomach growled at me, suddenly demanding to be fed.

I rushed to comply. With hobbling steps, I power-walked over to the kitchen table, skirting by an amused Murphy. My ass landed on a seat, the plate landed on the table, my face landed on the sandwich – and my state of bliss was suddenly interrupted by a frustrated sigh.

"Dresden, why are you still here?"

I stilled, mid-bite.

"...Because this is the kitchen, and I'm eating?" I tried, sounding as confused as I felt. My mouth was full of tasty sandwich at the time, so I wasn't sure if she'd gotten the message. I hazarded a glance up at her, my gaze searching – and too she was staring at me like I'd just confessed to murder.

"You're not the only one who needs stitches. Go eat in the other room." Murphy's baby blues flickered away, and I followed their movement – over to Saber, standing in the corner of the room. I swallowed.

She was still standing there, facing the sliding door and the world outside. Her bearing was that of a marble statue - cool and unmoving, totally silent. And maybe it was beacause of the way she held herself, the way she talked – like she was invincible – that I hadn't paid close attention to her injuries before.

But in the bright kitchen lighting, it was suddenly hard not to.

"Oh," I said.

Saber had washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink shortly after arriving, but that only highlighted just how pale she really was. Her lip and her forehead had been split open, soaking her dirt-stained golden locks until the tips looked strawberry blonde.

Her leather coat resembled a rag more than anything else, and it was worn through like someone had held it up to a belt sander. Patches were torn free in places where Lancer's spear had cut through it. I couldn't tell how serious her injuries were, not really - leather tends to stick to wounds and blood wouldn't show up well against dark colors - I noticed that the blood had seeped down through her jacket and soaked into her jeans, staining them red the thigh up.

Blood ran in a lazy river down her exposed wrist, before pooling at her fingertips – and dripping to the tile. I sipped at my beer, and as I watched her, I realized that the bitter taste in my mouth wasn't from the alcohol.

Saber blinked, and snapped her attention away from the snow, like she was waking from a dream. Turning to find our eyes on her, she furrowed her brow. "Karrin, I'll recover on my own. By the time the sun rises, I should -"

"Saber," Murphy interrupted. She placed her hands on her hips and sighed, her baby blues flashing with annoyance. "Shut up, get over here, and strip. I want you out of those clothes and on the counter, _now_."

I choked on my beer, and slammed the bottle down against the table.

Saber, looking positively _scandalized_ , took a half-step back. "...W-what?"

Murphy blinked, and looked between the two of us. Then, she started talking in a low, even tone, as though she were speaking to children. "Saber, you're bleeding all over the kitchen floor, and your clothes – _my_ clothes – are soaked through. You need to take them off, and we need to patch you up. Because having the kids wake up to a house covered in blood is something we'd all like to _avoid_ , right?"

"I-I suppose," Saber stammered. She spent an awfully long moment looking at the floor. "But what you just said, it sounded like... something else. It, ah... it caught me... off guard." She cleared her throat, and averted her eyes – looking everywhere but at Murphy.

In the awkward silence that followed, Murphy and I gave each other knowing looks. A silent conversation took place between us, which ended in me snorting, and in Murphy shaking her head.

"Whiskey," she deadpanned, shamelessly thumbing to the bottle. She turned to Saber and shrugged her shoulders – as much of an apology as she was capable of giving. "Believe me. If I wanted you, you'd know it."

Saber blinked, digesting Murphy's words. She glanced between Murphy, the bottle, and me – and then rested a tentative hand on the zipper of her jacket. Gently, she tugged it downwards, and I caught a glimpse of pale, creamy flesh beneath. Despite my better judgment, my eyes lingered on the nape of her neck, tracing the delicate outline of her collarbone, and -

"And _that's_ my cue to leave." I said, knocking back my beer and swiping my plate off the table. I all but fled into the living room, nearly tripping over my own feet as the tile flooring transitioned to carpet.

Murphy's laughter echoed at my back – and I felt my lips twitch into a smile, even as I made my way to the couch, firmly banished from the kitchen.

* * *

 **[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Update]:** Long time, no see, readers. Just thought I'd pop in, say hello, give you something new to look at. I started working on another story a few months back, and that's taken up most of my time – I felt like taking a short break from it and switching things up, so I'm going to be working on updating both stories instead of just Remnant.

 **[Remnant]:** If you're interested in checking out that other story, it's a Fate/Stay Night x RWBY crossover called _Remnant_. It's gotten a positive response so far, though admittedly it's been a struggle to write, because I'm newer to the fandom and the style of writing is very different from Jim Butcher's.

 **[News on the Homefront]:** Working on getting into policing. If that fails, I'm probably going to join the Air Force. Either way, expect weird update times and changes in the near future.


	20. Chapter 20

I was standing in an endless sea of wheat grass, rippling and swaying in the wake of a warm autumn breeze. The sun shone brightly overhead, hanging high in a sky I'd never seen so clear. Its rays carressed my back, even through my duster, like the hands of a tender lover. My lingering aches and pains faded away, without the cold comfort of the Winter Mantle to take their place; they disappeared, vanishing fom the edges of my perception like a distant memory, one blurred and erased by the passage of time.

Save one.

The only pain I felt was the bittersweet sting of nostalgia. Because this... this place, this open field, stretching towards the horizon... it was a reminder of Ebenezar McCoy and the days I'd spent at his farm. It was a reminder of cool nights and hot cocoa, stars and magic lessons... of familiar faces, roaring fires, home-cooked meals and people to share them with.

It was a dream, a lingering reminder of a long-forgotten home, and I knew it wouldn't last.

As if responding to my thoughts, my heart twinged violently – and I clapped a hand to my chest, wincing. It felt like someone someone had wrapped my carrotid artery in Icy-Hot. The feeling wasn't painful, exactly – just uncomfortable – but as my heart throbbed a second time, I realized that it _meant_ something.

The... burning, or whatever it was, it – it was urging me forward, into the field. Somewhere far in the distance, beyond the rolling hills and endless fields that lay beneath my feet.

Out of curiosity, and a waning sense of self-preservation, I began to move.

Time ebbed and flowed, twisting and turning in my passing. In what felt like minutes, the sun had set, and the breeze's warmth was replaced by a cutting, icy chill. I drew my duster about my shoulders, to stave off the breeze. In the silence and the cold, my teeth chattered like bullets spitting from the barrel of a machine gun; my breath misted in the frigid air, and my hands turned red, then purple. Still, I staggered onward, stumbling through the frosty tundra.

I felt my destination before I saw it: a farmhouse, rising from the earth before me, a beacon in the darkness.

It was of simple make, wrought of stone and timber, with a tradtionally thatched roof. Smoke piped through a cobbled chimney, curling into the air, lingering on the night wind – and as it billowed in my direction, I caught the scent of cooking food, a scent that made my mouth water.

I stopped just outside the doorway. Fingers, numbed by the cold, reached for the handle – but failed to find purchase. Swallowing thickly, I opened my mouth to speak, to call out to the occupants of the home, but all that escaped my lips was a ragged cough.

Someone must have heard me, because the voices from inside died away. Foosteps, lithe and graceful, beat a pleasant staccato against wood tile. Then, the handle turned.

As I stood there, frozen by the night's chill, the door opened... and a woman faced me.

The sight of her captivated me in a way I couldn't understand. The night's chill suddenly vanished, like it had never been. The panging in my heart ceased. The hunger I'd once felt faded, its gnawing pain a distant memory.

Something about her was familiar, but I couldn't place my finger on it. It was a face I should have known – but I couldn't recognize her, but for the life of me, I couldn't. So I stood there, like a love-struck fool, searching for words that refused to be found.

The woman, clothed in a peasant's dress, stepped through the threshold of her home... and yet, she didn't seem affected by the night's cold, clammy fingers. Closing the door gently behind her, she glanced straight ahead – not at me, but _through_ me. Towards the darkness at my back, the frozen wasteland I'd endured.

As she stepped forward, the light of a roaring fire at her back, I became more certain of it: she may have dressed the part of a peasant, but the setting of her shoulders and the rigid straightness of her back told me otherwise. I wasn't looking at a peasant, but a soldier. A soldier ready for war.

And as she passed beside me, her face shadowed by her blonde hair, I noticed something that chilled me, more than the weather ever could: her wide eyes, unblemished skin, and the gentle curve of her cheekbones.

She couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.

A visceral pain that tore its way through my chest, freeing me of my compulsion; a feeling like heartbreak and despair rolled into one tiny package slammed through me. Because the look on her face – that look of resignation, of grim determination – wasn't something that belonged on the face of a child.

' _No child should wear a face like that.'_

Before I could second-guess myself, instinct reared within me: a protective instinct, one that I had absolutely no right to. A hand of mine reached out, clasping the girl's shoulder, holding her in place.

"Hey."

Her breath hitched – and she paused, mid-step, as though awakening from a dream of her own. After a moment, she turned, glancing up at me. Her emerald eyes settled on mine, filled with a note of confusion – and surprise.

"It's cold out there," I said.

Glancing behind me, I stared into the field of wheat – whose stalks, once supple and gleaming beneath summer's rays, _writhed_ in the moonlight like the remnants of a hungry nightmare. Looking over that field... it felt like I like staring into the face of Mab herself, for the very first time, bathing in all of her twisted power, crippled by a sudden, icy terror.

The girl looked up at me, smiling softly. Her dainty hand rested on mine, and gently guided my fingers away from the nape of her dress. She squeezed my hand – a gesture of gratitude, and a parting farewell – and released it, after a moment. But even after our hands had parted, the warmth of her touch seemed to linger. Whatever horrors she might face, whatever tragic end she might endure... this was the path she'd chosen, I realized. She was condemning herself to die.

And as she took another step forward, brushing past me, disappearing into the night... I realized something else.

I knew her name. _  
_

* * *

Sunlight streamed in through the window of the Carpenter's family room, making my head pound like a double-bass at a Metallica concert. I forced my eyes open, but they hadn't adjusted to the light yet; the world was a mix of fuzzy, blurry shapes, and half-registered sensations that I couldn't make heads or tails of.

Clarity returned, minute by minute. I was laying on the couch in the Carpenter's family room... and as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I discovered that I wasn't a lone. Across the room, a head of blonde hair peaked out from beneath a thick comforter, asleep on the couch opposite. A chest rose and fell softly beneath the blanket with each breath its owner took.

Saber.

Hers was the face I'd seen in my dream. But here, now, it was different. It was hard to imagine such a serene look on the face of a soldier. She shifted, tugging at the blanket; as she did, lifting the blanket away from her side, I caught the tell-tale glimpse of white gauze... and a pang of guilt settled in my chest.

I tried sitting up – and failed spectacularly. Blinking, I glanced down... and to my surprise, I found my gaze filled with a _second_ head of dirty-blonde hair – and this one was on my chest. An arm was draped around me, clutching me like an oversized teddy bear... and its owner stirred in her sleep, burying her face further into the crook of my elbow.

Murphy.

Murphy was never a cuddler, not really. She was generally more comfortable at a distance, never letting anyone too close; our private activities aside, the former cop wasn't a huge fan of physical contact. She wasn't very trusting, hated public displays of affection, and hated being seen as vulnerable.

So the sight of her, curled up on top of me, in the Carpenter's family room of all places, had me stunned to silence. I opened my mouth to say something, and then my jaw clacked shut. I knew she hadn't been there when I'd gone to sleep – so she'd probably arrived much later than I had. Hell's Bells, she must have been really worried about me. I couldn't think of the last time she'd done something like this. The guilt I'd been feeling deepened, and a grimace made its way to my lips.

Very much awake, and suddenly needing to use the bathroom, I began to move. Little by little, I shimmied to the side, trying to escape the clutches of the woman on my chest without waking her.

I should have known better. I have many talents as a wizarding detective; subtlety is not one of them. More to the point, Murphy might not have been a morning person, but she was a light sleeper, courtesy of a lifetime in law enforcement.

As soon as I'd started moving, a set of baby-blues, bleary and rimmed with fatigue, glanced up in my direction.

"Sorry, Murph," I murmured. "Didn't mean to wake you."

The woman in question didn't answer, not at first. I guess she wasn't as awake as I'd thought. After a moment, she glanced down at my chest – as if noticing where she was, for the first time – and she made a half-hearted attempt at a scowl. It looked kind of cute, not that I'd ever say so out loud.

"Was drunk. Leg hurt. Couldn't... climb the stairs. Sat down, fell asleep." She mumbled, by way of explanation. Her voice picked up a note of warning, and her gaze sharpened. "Don't get any ideas."

I hummed thoughtfully, as my hand ran up and down her arm. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Murphy sighed, relaxing into my touch, if only just.

We stayed like that for a few minutes: Murphy, resting on top of me, her head buried in my shoulder, and me, sprawled across the Carpenter's couch. I could feel the beating of her heart against mine, and the soft caress of her breath on my chin.

For what seemed like days, I'd been trapped in a hellish nightmare of pain, cold, and death. The people I'd cared about had been assaulted, and I'd been pushed to my absolute limit in a desperate bid to save not only them, but all the kids that'd been swiped by the Fomor. It was a miracle that I was functioning, let alone coherent.

Those few minutes with Murphy were a reminder that it was all worth it. They were a dream come true to me, a paradise, far from the madness of the Grail War. But, much like the dream I'd woken from – the dream that I still remembered, in startling clarity – I knew it was a paradise that I knew wouldn't last.

It couldn't. Murphy knew it as well as I did. We had work to do.

"Dresden... as comfortable as I am right now - you _really_ need a shower," she said.

"Mmm. Didn't stop you from using me as your pillow."

"Shut up and clean up." Murphy grumbled, before rolling to the side, giving me just enough room to leave the couch.

"If you insist," I sighed. With a soft groan, I staggered to my feet. "Back in a minute."

I stepped out of the family room and headed upstairs, glancing at the kitchen clock in passing. The dial read _10:13_. It was a weekday morning, so the kids were already at school, and they wouldn't be back until late in the afternoon. Michael and Charity were out, as well; my money was on Charity working at the school, and Michael pitching in at the Better Future Society, helping Butters with his training. The eldest Carpenter might not have been able to fight, but he was a damned good teacher, and it showed.

My musings were interrupted as I made it into the restroom. I closed the door behind me with a sigh, and lifted my arms above my head, trying to tear away my shirt – only to stiffen as a lance of pain shot through my shoulder, followed shortly by a wave of cold, and a quarter-sized crimson stain that blossomed through the fabric of my shirt.

My wounds - they hadn't healed.

The _hell?_

I grimaced, and peeled back the stained fabric – only to wince at the sight of the angry red wound, puffy at the edges, held shut by a series of improvised sutures. In my haste to get out of my dirty clothes, I'd ripped one of them out.

The mantle was doing its job, killing the pain, but – but why wasn't I healing? Every time I'd fallen asleep since soul-gazing those kids, I'd been healing like Wolverine on _Neosporin_.

What had changed?

I wracked my brain for an explanation, and came up short.

Maybe it had something to do with my connection to Saber. The marks on my hand, those _Command Seals_ – those had appeared just before my first incident of super-healing. Last night was the first night that Saber had gone to sleep as well. She'd told me that she didn't need to sleep, but that doing so helped her recover from injuries faster. Could it be that my advanced healing was connected to her, somehow – and when she took advantage of it, I couldn't?

It was an important question, but it wasn't the most pressing. I wasn't planning anything particularly life-threatening that day, so I didn't need a quick fixer-upper... and, come nightfall, I could talk bring Bob out for a consult. Chances are that he'd have a solution for me, or at least an idea of where I should start looking.

And at that time, I had other things to worry about.

I stumbled into the shower and cranked the dial up to eleven. Scalding hot water poured over my neck and back, matting my hair and washing away yesterday's blood; I was careful about keeping my shoulder away from the spray, so that I wouldn't flinch and tear out another suture.

Under the steam, my thoughts drifted.

I thought of Saber, and the dream. No – not a dream. It felt... it felt almost like a soulgaze. Even then, standing in the shower, I could recall every detail of the dream with perfect, unfiltered clarity. Perhaps it some sort of psychic bleed-over, caused by the Master-Servant bond. A bond that I still didn't fully understand, one that seemed to fly in the face of conventional magic and mucked about in the morally grey area of soul manipulation.

I couldn't say I was thrilled about it. I felt like I was intruding on her privacy, viewing something I shouldn't have. And what I'd seen... it didn't sit well with me, either. I couldn't put what I felt to words, because to say it aloud would be to spit in Saber's face, and _Merlin_ , that'd make for an awkward good-morning.

 _'Hey, I've been dreaming of a teenage version of you. Oh, and did I mention that I disapprove of your life choices?'_

Foot, meet mouth.

Worse, Merlin forbid that Murphy catch wind of that conversation – she'd have me dead to rights, and of all the ways to go, that was one I _didn't_ plan on risking.

Nicodemus, for all of his plotting and scheming, had nothing on an angry Murphy. He was terrifying, but at least his methods were predictable. Live for a few thousand years, and that tends to be the case; you get used to pulling the same schemes, working the same ends, and using the same tools to get the job done. Odds are that he'd stick me with cold iron, shackle me beneath running water, and then starve me to death or something. If he was feeling particularly edgy, he might even force me to kill my loved ones. Horrifying, without a doubt, but expected.

On the other hand, Murphy'd only around for thirty five years. I'd seen her take down demons three times her size using little more than her hands. Put a weapon in her hand, and she became a force of nature; give her wire and high-impact explosives, and she became an _artist._ I'd known her for most of my adult life, and even then, she'd still manage to surprise me. For someone who'd lived most of her life toeing the thin blue line, she was probably the most unpredictable person I'd ever met.

Nicodemus had a list of enemies a mile long, but nobody – and I mean _nobody_ \- fucked with Murphy. Not even me.

The water began running clear, gently tugging me from my thoughts. As nice as the shower was, I didn't want to burn through all the hot water, not before the others had a chance to use it. So, with a sigh, I stepped out of the shower, turning the knob behind me.

Stepping out of the bathroom and into the guest bedroom, I threw on a fresh change of clothes: a maroon sweatshirt with the Disney logo on it, and a pair of cargo shorts that stopped just below the knees. I had to roll up the shirtsleeves, because they barely made it to my forearms. In the end, I looked the part of a suburban dad, or possibly a homeless alcoholic. Fading black eyes and a scraggly five-o-clock shadow had me looking more like the second one.

The clothes weren't exactly my first pick, but most of mine had been toasted when Berserker had carpet-bombed Murphy's house. Since I couldn't feel the cold and had plenty of life experience not giving a fuck, I was content with that.

I strolled back downstairs, grabbing my duster off the coat-rack by the landing. Throwing it over my shoulder – and grimacing at how drafty it was, courtesy of so many stab wounds and bullet holes – I stumbled into the kitchen.

To my surprise, there were not two, but _three_ people at the kitchen table.

Saber was there, as regal-looking as ever, even while wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a sky-blue workout hoodie; a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea was nestled between her palms, and **Caliburn** was leaned up against the table beside her, wrapped in a layer of white cloth.

Murphy sat beside her, wearing her clothes from the night before. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and knotted off with a simple black band. Despite the early hour, she appeared wide awake – and she was smiling. An old newspaper was laid out on the table in front of her, but she didn't seem to be reading it; all of her attention was devoted to the third person at the table.

And across from her, his hands folded politely in his lap, was...

It took me a moment to process who I was looking at, but once the lightbulb went on, I couldn't help but stop and stare.

Tall and gangly, with flat grey eyes, angular features and the faintest touch of grey in his short-cropped hair... wearing the clothing of a mid-level businessman, or perhaps a school teacher. The slanting of his eyes, gave away his Asian heritage.

It was the man from the coma ward. The one who'd helped me escape my pursuers.

"Kuzuki," I said, numbly.

"Good morning, Mister Dresden," he said, in a dispassionate monotone. He gave me a once-over, noting my state of dress, and he blinked. "I see you are doing... well. I do not remember those bullet holes."

"Dresden, you never told me you'd met before." Murphy glanced between the two of us, raising an eyebrow. An amused chuckle bubbled to her lips. "Small world, ain't it?"

"Wait a minute. You _know_ this guy?" I asked, thumbing at the man who'd gone all _wax-on, wax-off_ , and murderized a hit squad with his bare hands.

"Of course. Kuzuki Souichirou, the _Viper of Japan_. He's one of the few people that could contend with me in the open circuit, back when I was active in the competitive judo scene," she said, grinning wryly. Then, she peeled back the corner of the newspaper, and gestured with a jerk of her chin. "Take a look."

I walked up beside her, peering over her shoulder – and feasted my eyes on the paper she'd been reading. It was an old one, written in Japanese sprinkled with English sports drink advertisements. I couldn't make heads or tails of the text, but the picture was unmistakeable: that of a younger Murphy being hip tossed, an excited grin splitting her lips... and Kuzuki doing the tossing. Unlike her, he'd barely aged a day – and even in that decade-old photo, he looked just as bored, just as professional. He even had the same _haircut_ , for crying out loud.

I wasn't the only one intrigued. Saber was leaning over as well, her sea-green eyes dancing over the article. Could she – wait, was she _reading_ Japanese? Was Arturia Pendragon a closet anime fan, or was this another Servant power?

"Thirty-seven wins in an open weight division," she muttered, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. "If that means what I think it means... that is very impressive."

Probably another Servant thing. _Stars and stones_. Crazy power that somehow worked around machines, bad-ass forgotten magics and an understanding of modern languages? I knew wizards who would give an arm and a leg to be in her position.

Of course, then I remembered that she'd given up her afterlife and handed over control of her soul to me in order to make that happen, which made the whole 'being a Servant' thing far less exciting. I grimaced, averting my eyes; for being so, uh... _well-constructed_... Saber was awfully hard to look at.

"I haven't seen him in... at least a decade now, I think," Murphy added, her voice thick with pride. It tore me from my thoughts, something I was grateful for. "But I couldn't forget him if I tried. You fight somebody that good, and you don't forget it."

"...Huh." I studied Kuzuki, blinking owlishly. "No kidding."

"She exxagerates," responded Kuzuki, in his trademark monotone. "The credit should not go to me, but to the style itself. I am merely a conduit for the work of my teachers. Additionally, I held the benefit of experience, but Miss Murphy was a credit to her peers, even in those days. Victory was no easy task."

"I... I see." Hold the phone – he actually _beat_ Murphy? In an ass-kicking contest?

"Well, in that case. It's, uh... it's good to have you over, Mister Miyagi." Clearing my throat, and trying to ignore the sudden heat of Murphy's disappointed scowl, I staggered into the kitchen and walked over to the cupboard, fishing around for... something. I wasn't really sure. " I, uh... Can I get you anything? There's... coffee, and... I can make a pretty mean skillet."

"I am content," Kuzuki replied, glancing at his wristwatch. "I am not here for pleasure, but for business. And, unfortunately, I am pressed for time. With your approval, I would like to dispense with the pleasantries and proceed."

I glanced at Murphy, searching for an explanation – and she made her _'I'm not really sure what's going on here, the ball's in your park now, don't drop it'_ face. She took another sip of her coffee, a vindictive smirk playing at her lips.

"...Alright," I said, warily. My gaze flickered to Kuzuki, and I sighed, scratching at the stubble on my chin. "After that stint at the hospital, hearing you out's the least I could do. What do you need? Gotta say, I'm a little loaded with cases at the moment, so -"

"Actually, that's what I'm here about," he interrupted. "I believe I may be of some assistance to you in these matters."

Then, he moved his hands from his lap... and closed his eyes.

Murphy's smirk faded, and a pistol was suddenly in her hands, drawn from a concealed holster underneath the table. Saber's eyes widened fractionally, and she sucked in a quick breath. I stiffened, the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

Because, as he did, there was a faint pulse of magic – and on the back of his hand emerged a very _familiar_ tribal tattoo.

"I am Kuzuki Souichirou, the Master of Servant Rider," he said, casually, "and I am here to propose an alliance."

* * *

 **[By Request: Servant Stats.]**

 **Servant:** Saber  
 **Master:** Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden  
 **Identity:** Arturia Pendragon  
 **Title(s):** "The Once and Future King", "The King of Knights".  
 **Alignment:** Lawful Good  
 **Strength:** B+  
 **Endurance:** C  
 **Agility:** B  
 **Luck:** A  
 **Mana:** B  
 **Noble Phantasm:** A

Skills:

 **Magic Resistance:** Rank A. Cancels spells of A-rank or below, no matter what high-thaumaturgy it is. In practice, Servants with Magic Resistance of this rank are untouchable to most modern wizardry, so it would not be an exxageration to title this servant an "Anti-Mage."

 **Riding:** Rank B. Most vehicles can be handled with above-average skill, including motor vehicles such as motorcycles, helicopters, fighter jets and so on. However, cannot ride the likes of Phantasmal Races such as Monstrous Beasts, or any creature of a Divine nature.

 **Charisma** : Rank B. Those with Charisma are said to have the natural talent to command others, inspiring them and leading them into conflict. Increases the ability of allies during group battles. One with B-ranked Charisma is said to have sufficient skill to lead a nation as its King.

 **Instinct:** Rank A. The power to "feel" the most favorable developments for oneself during battle. A refined sixth sense that is close to true precognition. Has the bonus effect of reducing penalties caused by obstructed vision and hearing by half.

 **Mana Burst:** Rank A. A technique that allows for a temporary increase in performance by infusing one's weapons and body with magical energy and instantly expelling it. Simply put, recreating the effect of a jet burst by expending large amounts of Mana.

 **Noble Phantasms:**

 **Caliburn: Golden Sword of the Victorious.** Anti-Unit, Anti-Fortress, Rank B (Enhanced to A). The holy sword that is the symbol of the One True King, pulled from the stone of appointment by King Arthur under the presence of Merlin. Due to its reforging and extensive history within the Knights of the Cross, its power is increased by a full rank when activated. Swinging this sword and declaring its True Name will release a burst of holy energy, searing all in its wake, similar to the sword Excalibur. It has an effective range of four-hundred meters, and can affect a maximum of five-hundred targets in one swing.

Though similar in effect, It is not as strong as the true Excalibur, which Arturia Pendragon later received from the Lady of the Lake; this is because while Excalibur is a true weapon (a Last Phantasm in its own right), Caliburn is not classified as a 'weapon of the battlefield', but as a 'symbol of a king's authority'. Thus, it is not as powerful when used in direct combat.

 **Invisible Air:** **Bounded Field of the Wind King.** Anti-Unit, Rank C. A sheath of wind that can cover the user's sword, concealing it, so that it cannot be easily recognized as a famous holy sword of King Arthur and expose her identity. It is a bounded field closer to wizardry than a Noble Phantasm that is made up of multiple layers of wind compressed into super-high pressure air with a massive amount of magical energy. The wind distorts light, refracting it around the blade, essentially rendering what is inside completely invisible to the naked eye.

 **Servant:** Lancer.  
 **Master:** ?  
 **Identity:** Leonidas, Son of Anaxandridas.  
 **Title(s):** "King of Sparta," "He Who Holds The Pass"  
 **Alignment:** Lawful Neutral.  
 **Strength:** B+  
 **Endurance:** A  
 **Agility:** D  
 **Mana:** C  
 **Luck:** C  
 **Noble Phantasm:** B

Skills:

 **Magic Resistance:** Rank C. Cancels spells with a chant below two verses. Cannot defend against Magecraft on the level of High-Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals.

 **Dignity of the Rearguards:** Rank A. The more disadvantageous a battle situation is, the stronger Leonidas becomes. Dignity of the Rearguards embodies Leonidas' skill as a master tactician, enabling him to anticipate the actions of his opponents and retain a sense of clarity free from mental compulsion or fear. This is primarily useful in defensive battles or military withdrawals, especially when against a superior force, allowing Leonidas to hold his own against significant numbers; due to the varying nature of the battlefield, this ability is adaptive, and it can manifest in various ways (such as a temporary increase in strength, or the use of a visual glamour). When facing overwhelming odds, Lancer additionally gains a one rank increase to all of his base stats. This is comparable to the effects of Mad Enhancement of equal rank, without the drawbacks.

 **Battle Continuation:** Rank A. Strength of vitality. The ability to withdraw from combat, even after taking serious injury, and reach allied territory alive after being defeated. At Rank A, makes it possible to fight even with deadly injuries, so long as the wielder does not receive a decisive fatal wound.

 **Cry** **of the Warrior:** Rank B. A morale boosting skill. By shouting and augmenting his voice with a timely burst of prana, Leonidas is able to rally his allies – and also distract and disorient enemies, breaking the concentration of anyone with less than C rank Charisma.

 **Divinity:** Rank C. King Leonidas purported to be a descendent of Hercules himself. As he was the descendent of a demigod, he is not 'Divine', but can be said to possess Divine blood.

 **Noble Phantasms:**

 **Chyrsi Thanato, The Golden Spear of Mortality.** Anti-Unit, Rank C (Conditional B). The legendary spear of Leonidas that crossed immeasurable distances and wounded the invincible God-King Xerxes. When charged and thrown, this spear will cross any distance to reach its target, so long as that target is within line of sight. Similar to Gae Bolg, the Belly Spear, Chyrsi Thanato will adjust its trajectory in order to strike its target; however, this spear's ability to strike does not constitute a reversal of causality, and a strike is not guaranteed. Upon striking the target, Chyrsi Thanato then detonates, consuming the target in a highly concentrated blast of lightning and fire. When used against targets of Divine origin, this Noble Phantasm gains an additional rank of power, and is guaranteed to "wound" whoever it hits.

 **Thermopylae Enomotia.** Anti-Army, Anti-Unit, Rank B. A defensive noble Phantasm, unique to Leonidas. It is the re-enactment of the legendary Battle of Thermopylae, which is accounted to the name known as Leonidas in the world; this re-enactment is crystallized, given physical shape taking the form of his Aspis.

Thermopylae Enomotia is a counter-attack Noble Phantasm. The shield – and its wielder – become overlayed with a visage of his three-hundred spartans, each of which has C~E rank endurance. In essence, when Leonidas reveals his Aspis to block an attack, the attacker is not striking one but three-hundred people. This incredible defense allows Lancer to defend against all manner of Anti-Unit attacks, as well as some Anti-Army attacks, and remain unscathed. Additionally, successfully blocking an attack with Thermopylae Enomotia allows Lancer to perform a single counter-attack, boosting his own combat strength by up to 300% for the duration of that strike, depending on the number of his Spartans that 'survived' the initial attack.


	21. Chapter 21

A tense silence fell over us. Nobody so much as twitched. The air in the room was suddenly electric, hot, stifling. The morning's peace had given way, and the Carpenter's kitchen had become a powder-keg, ready to blow.

"You're a Master... in the war," repeated Murphy, her gaze challenging, her tone hard and unamused. She bit the inside of her lip, confusion clear in her eyes – and her finger twitched unsteadily on the trigger of her service revolver.

"Indeed," replied Kuzuki, nodding stoically. "The Grail chooses those who are most in need of a miracle. I was one of the few chosen, much like Mister Dresden."

He laid his hands on the table, palms-down, and splayed his fingers apart. At the sight of his all-but-surrender, Murphy's hard expression faltered. She lowered her pistol to the table, and breathed a sharp sigh.

"Talk."

Kuzuki glanced down at the gun in Murphy's hand, his expression bored – and I was suddenly reminded of the way he snapped rifles in two with his bare hands, not so long ago. My hand tightened on the hilt of my blasting rod, concealed in the pocket of my duster.

"I am here at the behest of another," he stated. "Like you, they take issue with Nicodemus and his actions. I'm sure you understand what I'm referring to. Their goal – my goal – is to see the leader of the Denarians removed from play: his servant defeated, and his ashes scattered to the winds."

"And who's your employer?" Murphy asked, her baby-blues as cool as ice. "Someone we know?"

Kuzuki shook his head. "Regretfully, that information will remain confidential. It was one of the stipulations of our contract. I am sure you understand."

It went without saying that Nicodemus had many enemies. He'd managed to piss off the Sidhe Courts more than once, as well as the Church, certain members of the White Council, Gentleman Johnny Marcone, and probably a whole host of factions I still wasn't aware of. I wasn't surprised that one of them would end up involved in the war – after all, the promise of a wish ensured that anyone worth their salt would throw into the ring – but who could it be? I needed something more to work with.

"No. No, I don't," I said. "How can we trust a man who won't say who he's working for?"

"I am working for myself," Kuzuki replied, flatly, "and I have no interest in the Grail. I do not care who wins it, so long as my contract is fulfilled. I have no intentions of betraying you to acquire it, not for myself or for my employer. At the present time, my only goal is the elimination of Nicodemus."

"But you said the war chose those most in need," Murphy stated. She glanced in my direction, then back at Kuzuki.

"That is true," the _Viper of Japan_ admitted. "As you know, the Grail possesses limited self-awareness desires to be used. Logic would dictate, then, that those it chooses as Masters would have the most desire to use it. This would ensure that only the most motivated candidates would be chosen, and only the strongest among them, the most committed, would emerge the victor."

"Then why don't you want the Grail?" I asked.

"Because what I seek is something that the Grail can't grant," he replied. After a moment, he glanced away, and his voice was much softer – and carried with it a faint hint of emotion, the first I'd heard out of him since we'd met. "I have lived long enough to understand that."

Saber leaned forward in her seat, and furrowed her brow. Beneath her bangs, her sea-green eyes shone with curiosity. "...So what is it you wish for, then?"

"It is something... personal. Something that cannot be conveyed with words, something that cannot be taken or given, only understood," he replied, dully. "At this point, sharing my desire with you serves no purpose, and so I will keep it private. You may rest assured it does not involve harming innocents or bringing destruction to your city."

Murphy and I exchanged a look. Between the two of us, we were pretty good at sorting out liars... and this guy didn't seem to be lying. That, or he was a sociopath, and didn't have any physical tells.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb, and say that you know what we can bring to the table," I said, returning my attention to our visitor. "Since you're a Wizard yourself, it's all but guaranteed that you know of my reputation, along with my relationship with the White Council and the Winter Court."

I folded my arms across my chest. It would have been an imposing look, but the bullet holes probably ruined the image of invincibility I was trying to give off.

"You're aware of some of Murphy's talents," I continued, "But she's come a long way in the last few decades. She's the closest thing humanity has to a demon-slayer. And as for Saber - she fended off Berserker in single combat, _without_ activating her Noble Phantasm, and managed to kill Lancer last night in a straight-up fight."

If Kuzuki was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, he steepled his hands, eyeing me expectantly. I gathered that he already knew – and that was probably why he'd approached us in the first place. The timing couldn't have been a coincidence.

"The way I see it, we hold the cards," I said, and rapped my knuckles on the kitchen table. "You've got a contract to fulfill, and I respect that, but what you're asking for, an alliance... that's a two way street. We need to know what you could offer us in return."

"Surely, committing to the defeat of Nicodemus is enough," Kuzuki replied. "Is that not your objective?"

"One of them," I said, nodding. "But we need specifics. You know we have the resources to do the job ourselves. Why should we team up with you? How do we know you aren't going to slow us down, or turn on us? How do we know this isn't a ploy to get us all killed?"

His flat grey eyes settled on me, evaluating me in a cold, detached sort of way. I suddenly felt like a bug beneath someone's microscope, and I barely resisted the urge to fidget. Instead, I furrowed my brow, and returned the look, focusing on the tip of his nose; something told me the last thing I wanted to do was _soulgaze_ the guy.

"Maybe you could defeat Nicodemus, on your own," he replied, glancing away, "but he is a very tenacious man, and not without allies. Any victory you achieve will be tainted with sacrifice. I can take that burden from you."

"How?" I asked. The vague nature of his replies was making my palms itch.

"I possess information, the sort that would prove useful in this conflict," he stated, ignoring my razor-sharp glare. "Ley line locations, ideal for potential ritual sites. Logistics regarding Nicodemus and his assets that you may not have access to. Data on the Fomor – on their movements and migratory patterns. I also have the resources of my employer at my disposal, which are not inconsiderable."

I shrugged. "Since you won't tell us who your employer is, we don't actually have any clue what that means. As for information – we have our own sources already, magical and mundane. What can you tell us that we don't already know?"

"I'm sure you're aware, by this point, that Nicodemus is a Master in the war," Kuzuki said. At my nod, he continued. "What you may not be aware of is that he is not alone. As of this point, he is one of _two_ masters in the Order of the Blackened Denarius."

"...Wait, what?" I asked, my stomach doing an impromptu backflip. My glare faltered, replaced by a look of confusion. The others didn't fare much better; Murphy bit back a curse, and Saber's gaze hardened, dropping to her blade.

"Indeed," Kuzuki murmured. "When the War was in its infancy, Nicodemus attempted to summon as many Servants as possible, in order to stack the deck in his favor. However, as the Grail is the manifestation of all human wishes, only humans can be chosen as masters; most of his brothers did not meet the criteria in order to summon a Servant, as they had been far too corrupted by their coins. Nicodemus himself maintains a partnership with his Fallen, but is not physically influenced by it. As such, he is one of few exceptions to the rule within their order."

He leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands politely on the table. "Following the death of Deirdre, the Order of the Blackened Denarius was fractured; many of his followers doubted his capacity as a leader, and began to question if he would sacrifice them as well in the pursuit of his aims. As a result, Nicodemus only commands a small following. Of those, most that did meet the requirements to summon a Servant were too powerful individually, and Nicodemus denied them the opportunity, fearing betrayal. Others were little more than pawns, unable to fully utilize the potential of a summoned Servant."

"...So, who did he choose?" I asked. A sudden suspicion, a grim hunch, was gnawing at my belly.

"In the wake of Deirdre's death, Polonius Lartessa – Nicodemus' wife – entered a mania so deep and profound that she has severed all ties with the Order," Kuzuki replied. As Tessa's name left his lips, I had to repress a shudder. "Enter Rosanna, her second. The two had always been close, and Rosanna was devastated by their severed bond. Believing that the Grail War represents an opportunity to bring back Dierdre, and therefore a chance at restoring Lartessa's sanity, Rosanna has submitted to Nicodemus' control in order to acquire summoner's rights."

"That must have been a pleasant experience," I said, grimacing. I did not want to know what Kuzuki meant by submit, but I was fairly sure it involved a _lot_ of dark ju-ju. Nicodemus and his wife had always been rivals, and there was no way he'd hand over a Servant to his wife's second-in-command without taking something greater in return.

Kuzuki nodded, straight-faced as ever. Seriously, did _nothing_ phase the guy? "Her magics are vastly inferior to those of Nicodemus. Despite her limitations, however, she does have enough power to summon a Servant, and enough intelligence to make use of it. Inevitably, she will turn on Nicodemus, as only one person's wish can be granted by the grail – but he likely has failsafes in place to deal with such a betrayal."

"And in the meantime, she's a threat," I finished, "a big one."

"Indeed." Kuzuki let out a slow breath, and closed his eyes. "Defeating a single Servant in combat is a difficult matter; two, on the other hand, is a near impossibility. You will need help, Mister Dresden, in order to achieve your aim."

I just had one question. "How do you know all this?" I asked, gesturing with a wave of my hand. "There's no way that you could know the inner workings of Nicklehead politics, not unless..."

Kuzuki fixed me with a look, one that shut me up completely.

"I can't reveal that without compromising my employer's identity, and compromising certain... assets." He stated, his voice as flat as the tile beneath his feet. "It is in your interests that you do not know."

A _spy_. They – Kuzuki and his employer - had someone inside the Order of the Blackened Denarius. That was _huge_. We had Nicodemus' blood on tap; we could learn of his plans, figure out where the missing kids were... I imagined we'd be doing most of the heavy-lifting, but this lead was no joke.

"Should you agree to an alliance, all you would need to do is ask, and I would attempt to accommodate you with further information, provided that it does not violate the secrecy of my employer or compromise our existing contract," Kuzuki explained. "In return, I would expect your aid in combating our mutual enemy, when the time arises for a decisive strike. Furthermore, a truce would be maintained between us; we would maintain this truce until the defeat of Nicodemus, and would enforce it with a _geas_."

He had me convinced. In the war to come, we'd need all the allies we could get, especially against a two-servant team. Not to mention, the information he'd just given me – free of charge – spoke for itself. Nicodemus needed to die, and he was willing to put in the work to see it done.

But this wasn't my decision to make – it was a team effort, as Murphy and Saber had just reminded me the night before. I couldn't come to a decision like this one on my own.

"Murph?" I asked, glancing to my left. "What do you think?"

My favorite blonde's arms were crossed beneath her chest, and her pistol was abandoned on the kitchen table; she was chewing the inside of her lip, lost in thought. Any harder, I thought, and she'd punch right through it.

"This sounds too good to be true," she admitted, "but..."

She shook her head. "I mentioned that we fought, back when I was breaking into the international Judo scene." She paused. "In those days, women weren't as accepted in the international circuit. I fought for over two years to break in, but it wasn't until I challenged Kuzuki that I got the chance."

Murphy leaned back her seat, and spoke in a respectful murmur. "He committed to the fight. Critics started hassling him for it, because accepting a challenge from a woman wasn't viewed as proper, but Kuzuki didn't back down, even though he lost sponsors."

Saber's gaze drifted between the two fighters, and a faint smile came to her lips. It was fitting; if anyone would know about trying to break into a man's world, it would be her. It had been over twelve hours since she'd dropped that bomb on me – that King Arthur was, in fact, a woman in disguise – and I was still processing it. Moments like these, though, helped solidify the picture that was forming in my head, and gave me a better understanding of her personality.

I glanced at Kuzuki, who responded to the blonde's claims with a mechanical shrug. "I had never heard of Karrin before the match, but the audacity of a western woman challenging me was... compelling. I wondered why she would do such a thing. So, I spoke with others in the women's circuit, and watched several of her fights. As I said, she was a prodigy; I could not deny such a serious competitor. I felt that, in fighting her, I might come to understand her motivations... and that I might also come to better understand my own."

A faint glimmer of that same emotion, the one from before, shone in his eyes – and for just a moment, he seemed more real, and less like the _Terminator_ I'd made him out to be.

Murphy nodded, and folded her arms across her chest. "Dresden, the Souichirou Kuzuki I knew was serious about keeping his word, regardless of what anyone else thought. He was pragmatic, played a straight game, and stuck to his word, even when it wasn't convenient."

She bowed her head, and let out a slow breath. After a short moment of silence, she raised her head – and nodded, determination in her eyes. "He gave me a chance. I think we should give him one, too. As long as the contract checks out, we can expect him to abide by it, to the letter."

I glanced at Saber. The question went unspoken, but then, words weren't needed. Her sea-green eyes had been drawing a steady bead on our guest, engaged in silent evaluation.

She took a thoughtful sip of her tea, and shortly after, her lips twitched into a mild grimace. "Against the threat that Nicodemus represents, are we really in a position to turn away allies? Especially when they have so much to offer?"

The question lingered in the air like a bad hangover, and she let out a short sigh, setting down her cup with a soft _clack_. "I do not know Kuzuki as Karrin does," she admitted, "but she has proven herself wise about matters such as these. I trust her judgment. If she places faith in this alliance, I will do so as well."

Murphy looked at Saber, raising an eyebrow. Her gaze dipped lower, lingering on the nape of Saber's neck – and she pursed her lips. She looked grateful, but at the same time, there was something else in her expression. I got a feeling that she was confused, or troubled, about something.

What it was, exactly, I had no idea.

For the first time since entering the kitchen, I drew my attention away from my guest, and focused on the people beside me. As I did, I realized something – there was a strange sort of tension between the two of them, as obvious as it was strange. Though they were sitting beside one another, they weren't quite meeting each other's eyes.

Saber was as straight-forward as they came, but her praise was.. unusually blunt, and supportive, even for her. If she was truly basing her decision, her odds at securing the Grail, on Murphy's judgment... that wasn't a small thing to commit to. That spoke of a deep trust, or a desire to please.

Murphy, on the other hand, hated being praised – she usually took it as ass-kissing, and made a habit of calling out people for doing it – but here she was, taking a compliment without any back-talk. If anything, Saber's words had rattled her.

I'd been with one or both of them since Saber's accidental summoning. They'd barely interacted, aside from passing glances and shop talk. Did something happen between them after I'd fallen asleep? Had I missed something, something important?

Whatever it was – it wasn't my business. I trusted both of them with my life. If they felt like I should know, they'd fill me in. In the meantime, I had other things to worry about: namely, the man sitting before me, and the offer he was making.

I drew my duster about my shoulders, and furrowed my brow, reviewing the facts one last time. A odd silence fell about the room, and I realized that the others were waiting on my input.

"An alliance sounds... promising," I said, after a moment. "This could work. You provide logistics, we provide the muscle, and together, we wipe Nicodemus off the map."

My would-be ally nodded politely, making as if to stand – but I wasn't finished. I held up a hand, and he settled back into his seat. "I have two conditions, though... and if they aren't met, I'm not signing anything."

I lowered my hand back to the table, and fixed Kuzuki with a serious look. "The first: you and your Servant agree not to share any personal information of ours with your employer, or anyone else who isn't included in the _geas_. Not without mutual discussion, anyway. You might be bound to a truce, but no one else is, and I'm not about to team up with a mole."

Then, I leaned forward – and glared at him from beneath my brow, in the way that only a Wizard could. "And if you or your servant attempt to harm us, any civilian, ally, or innocent person, through malicious action or inaction, our truce is null and void, and I reserve the right to open up a can of whoop-ass. We clear?"

Kuzuki's eyes crinkled at the corners, and I got a faint sense of approval from him, though it was hard to tell; he was about as expressive as a brick wall. "That is... acceptable," he droned.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Alright then," I said. "Let's make it official."

* * *

As far as magical contracts went, it was fairly standard. I didn't consult Bob for it, but then, I didn't need to.

Being the Winter Knight came with its own share of perspective. Having dealt with the Sidhe before on numerous occasions, magically binding agreements were nothing new to me. Murphy's head for loopholes and technicalities was invaluable; between the two of us, we managed to cook up a fairly ironclad contract. If there were any loopholes that were easy to exploit, I couldn't see them. And, unlike the Sidhe, Kuzuki didn't seem interested in pushing for control; he pointed out loopholes in the contract, even ones that would have benefited him.

All he wanted was Nicodemus' head on a platter, and he was willing to work with us to get it done. He was straight-forward with us the entire time, a man of his priorities, who seemed genuine in his interests for an alliance. As creepy as his constant monotone was, he didn't seem like a half-bad guy.

Saber was content to listen in, sipping at her tea, giving advice when she felt it appropriate. However, she didn't have Murphy's head for legal work, nor my understanding of magic theory, so she was content to let the two of us deal with the heavy-lifting.

Once we'd finished writing it, the _geas_ signing was a relatively simple affair.

Kuzuki provided the ritual parchment; I inspected it for foul play, and finding none, gave him the go-ahead. A drop of blood from each of us, a pulse of magic, and the contract was signed. The whole process took maybe five minutes, as each of us reviewed the final draft in turn. When it was finished, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief – all of us except for Kuzuki, who remained placid as always. Seriously, if the guy hadn't owned a set of Command Seals, I'd find it hard to believe that he was human in the first place.

As a group, we moved to the foyer. It felt strangely empty without the Carpenter's grandfather clock, but that had gotten pitched after I smashed through it. Still, the walls had at least been repaired, and you couldn't even smell the blood anymore. Michael did good work.

"What now?" Murphy asked, folding her arms over her chest. She glanced between the three of us, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. "We've got daylight to kill. What should we tackle next?"

I pursed my lips, glancing at the doorway. The promise I made to her came to mind – and abruptly, a small smile came to my lips. "I need to speak with a contact who might have some information for me, and I need to do it today. Murphy, you and I are heading out to do some digging."

A matching one came to her own, along with a look of triumph. She stepped over to the hallway closet and fished out a thick winter coat, drawing it about her shoulders. It was one of those bulky North Face designs, made for extremely cold climates, with black paneling and cream-colored highlights. It was a good look on her, I decided.

Then, she reached deep into the closet – and withdrew no less than three pistols and a _sawed-off shotgun._ I watched, filled with equal parts awe and unease, as she managed to conceal every single one of them on her person... in the time it took most people to tie their shoes.

"And what am I tasked with?" Saber asked, watching the same display I was, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. "If you're arming yourself this heavily, the danger must be great. Surely, I should accompany you into the field."

"This isn't that kind of confrontation," I replied, as tactfully as I could. These were unsteady waters, and the last thing I wanted to do was throw myself overboard. I reminded myself of that, even as an amused grin split my lips.

"Then... why is she..?"

"Because it's Tuesday," I said, dryly. At Saber's look of confusion, I chuckled. "Murphy likes her guns."

"Damned straight," Murphy added, as she secured the shotgun within her bulky coat and zipped it up to her neck. Then, she tucked her hands into her pockets, and straightened her back; if I didn't know I was looking for a concealed weapon, I wouldn't have noticed it.

"Oh," replied Saber, blinking owlishly. "I... I see."

Then, I turned to my Saber, and my expression sobered. "The Carpenters have been run ragged, and Sanya and Butters are on patrol right now. Maggie and little Harry will be home from school soon, and they'll need protection. I need someone to stay here and hold down the fort."

Saber's confusion faded, and was replaced by a look of disbelief. "Harry, I must respectfully protest against this course of action," she said, furrowing her brow. "How am I to protect you if we are separated?"

"You aren't," I said, shaking my head. "If both of us leave here, this home is left undefended - which mean the Carpenters, the kids, and Maggie will be at risk. Nicodemus isn't above attacking innocents to make a point, and he's already hit us once. If he sees an opportunity, he'll do it again."

"Then why not send me out in your stead?" Saber asked. She made a fist with her right hand, and held it over her heart - a gesture of respect and fealty. "I am your sword, and am much more prepared at dealing with the threat posed by other Servants in this war."

"That's true. Fighting Servants is your area of expertise, and you're much better at it than Murphy and I," I grunted, as I tugged on my stompy boots. "But we're protected by daylight, and this isn't combat, this is detective work. We should be fine. And if something happens, I have Command Seals that I can use. We talked about this, remember?"

"I suppose," she murmured, quietly. Saber pursed her lips, looking a little uneasy. "Still, letting you go on your own..."

I placed a hand on her shoulder. An electric tingle raced up my arm, raising the hairs on the back of my neck; I'd gotten used to the sensation, though, and it actually brought me a small measure of comfort.

"Saber," I said, "You're the strongest fighter here. There is no one else I'd rather have protecting my loved ones. Do you understand the weight of what I'm asking you?"

Saber glanced up at me, and then nodded. Though she clearly wasn't happy with my decision, her frown vanished, and was replaced by a look of stalwart discipline. She gave a formal bow. "Of course. I swear that I will keep the Carpenters safe, Harry. Your family is in good hands."

I glanced at Kuzuki, who had been standing near the doorway.

"I will be departing for now," he said, flatly. "I have other matters to attend to. Briefing my employer is chief among those."

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a business card. It was plain white, with no identifying features other than a cell phone number – a local number, too, judging by the area code. Given the man's insistence on secrecy, I imagined that it led to a burner phone or something similar, something that would be difficult to track, that could be discarded at a moment's notice. I took the card and passed it to Murphy, who accepted it with a gentle rolling of her eyes.

"Alright. Do you need a ride?" I asked, glancing over his shoulder at the snowy expanse outside. In some places, it had to be at least a foot deep; the roads were covered in ice and slush. "Not sure where you're heading, but the weather's pretty bad. No sense in walking."

Kuzuki eyed me for a moment, and then pulled out his cell phone. He dialed a number, and pressed the call button. Seconds later, I heard the roaring of a performance engine, taking on speed.

I stepped forward, opening the door, and glanced down the street – looking for the source.

A shape appeared far down the road – a foreign sports car, sleek and stylish with red paint and white pin-stripes... a sports car that was travelling _far_ too fast for road conditions.

I held my breath as it ate up the pavement, doing at least _seventy_ miles an hour in a residential neighborhood, its driver seemingly ignorant of the icy pavement and patches of snow. Somehow, it never lost traction, never lost speed, never even swerved.

Until it hit a patch of ice about five doors down.

The vehicle was suddenly thrown into a death-defying spin, rotating like a pair of helicopter blades, throwing up powder in its wake as it plowed down the street. My heart leapt into my chest and I let out a curse as it careened onwards, narrowly missing someone's mailbox and at least _three_ parked cars. Things started looking even worse as it listed to one side of the road, towards a snow bank – a snow bank that I knew concealed a brick ledge.

Miraculously, the driver managed to avoid it entirely; the car's front bumper careened on by, missing brick by mere inches. A heartbeat passed, and the driver slammed onto the emergency brake, gunned the engine, and spun the wheel. Performance-grade treads suddenly regained their hold on the pavement, and the sound of squealing tires filled the air, along with the smell of burnt rubber. In a move straight out of _Need for Speed: Tokyo Drift_ , it did a complete one-eighty, before skidding to a stop at the foot of the Carpenter residence, parallel parked between Saber's junker and the neighbor's SUV.

With less than a foot to spare on either side. Safe. Not a _scratch_ on the paint.

"Merlin's... _fuck,"_ I gasped, my throat suddenly dry.

There was a choking sound beside me, and I realized I wasn't the only spectator.

"Holy _shit_ ," Murphy breathed. Her voice was faint, barely a whisper. "That – that was... is that...?"

The driver's side door opened, and a woman of indeterminate age emerged. She stood just under six feet tall, with strong features and pale skin, a strong nose and high cheekbones; her light blue hair was pulled up into into a bun beneath her chauffeur's hat, revealing a set of elongated ears, like those of the Sidhe.

She was wearing a purple coat, embroidered with golden buttons, and a crisp, black pencil skirt traveled down to about mid-thigh, along with a pair of leggings that bled into high-heeled boots. All in all, she projected the aura of a sophisticated woman, mature and refined in her tastes.

That illusion was broken entirely by the way she ran towards us. All but stumbling out of the car, she lugged through the snow, ignoring the recently-shoveled driveway entirely. Her approach was stilted and clumsy; she was tripping on snow as much as she was tripping over her own feet.

"You have got to be kidding me." Murphy's eyes widened, and her voice dropped low, as she entered the first stages of shock. Her lips twisted, and she looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. "There's no way she's..."

Kuzuki stepped around me, descending from the porch – only to be stopped by a head of sky-blue hair that crashed into his chest. The woman giggled excitedly, burrowing her face into the older man's shoulder. "Souichirou-sama! I'm here!"

Kuzuki blinked, before glancing down at the woman, raising a stoic eyebrow. "That was... unnecessary, Rider."

"Ah. Was it?" The aptly named Rider asked, blushing faintly. She averted her eyes, staring at her feet, in the way a scolded child might. "Apologies, Souichirou-sama! I just wanted to impress our new allies! I guess I went overboard again. Sorry, everyone!"

"Huh." I blinked, glancing between the two of them. "So, this is... Rider."

"Indeed," Kuzuki replied, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes. There was a slightly crinkling of his eyes at the corners, and he spoke with the sort of familiarity that made his Servant's blush deepen. "As you can see, I am in good hands."

I glanced back at Murphy – noting her incredulous, open-mouthed stare – and snorted. "I guess so," I said. Then, a sudden impulse emerged within me – and a mischievous smirk split my lips. "Speaking of which... if it's not too much trouble, can you do us a favor?"

Kuzuki eyed me expectantly, and I laid it out my request. It took a minute to deliver, a minute I made sure to enjoy. As I continued speaking, Rider's grin widened, and Saber was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. Murphy, on the other hand, looked like she was going to have a conniption.

I finished making my request. Kuzuki furrowed his brow, and then checked his wristwatch; after a moment of indecision, he glanced up, and nodded. "We have time to spare, and it isn't far from our destination. Your proposition is... acceptable."

"Dresden, _please_ tell me you're kidding," grunted Murphy.

"Nope."

"Have you seen her driving?"

"Have you seen her park?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I gave the blonde beside me a knowing grin. "She's a natural, Murph. Servant classes are no joke."

Murphy scowled. "She broke half a dozen laws in the last ten minutes, and you want her to-"

"Yep," I replied, unphased.

Murphy sucked in a quick breath – and then sighed, hanging her head. "...Well, I suppose I'm not much better. Alright, I'll bite. But if we die, Dresden, I'm haunting your grave."

I stepped out into the snow, grinning slyly - and made my way to the car. "Well, there are worse fates."

* * *

 **[Author's Note – Fell the Tempest]**

 **[Hey Guys]:** Another chapter, polished and ready for you. Lots of little things happening here, character analysis and plot development taking the stage.

 **[Rider's Identity]:** Those of you who are already fans of the Fate series know who Rider is. Her appearance is very distinct, so telling you her real name – and the power she possesses - isn't much of a spoiler, and doesn't reveal anything super-important about the plot that Dresden would directly come across. To that end, I'm going to post the Servant Stats for her in this chapter, so you understand the differences between this iteration of her and the canon version. Hopefully, it'll help cement this character in your minds and show justification for her behavior instead of coming across as OOC.

* * *

Servant Stats:

 **Servant:** Rider  
 **Master:** Souichirou Kuzuki  
 **Identity:** Medea of Colchis  
 **Title(s):** "Princess of Colchis", "The Witch of Betrayal."  
 **Alignment:** True Neutral  
 **Strength:** D  
 **Endurance:** D  
 **Agility:** D  
 **Mana:** B  
 **Luck:** C  
 **Noble Phantasm:** EX

Skills:

 **Riding:** Rank A++. Creatures on the level of Phantasmal Beast and Divine Beast can be used as mounts, including members of the Dragon Kind. All modern vehicles can be operated with proficiency bordering on precognition. It is as though Rider can 'feel' through any vehicle she operates, spiritually merging with it, putting it through its paces in ways that no mortal could ever possibly achieve.

 **Divinity:** Rank C **.** Medea of Colchis was the granddaughter of Helios, the god of the sun in Greek mythology. Though not a goddess by any stretch of any imagination, Medea's blood was potent enough that she possessed the ability to call down and command her patron's chariot by sheer force of will.

Noble Phantasms:

 **The Golden Fleece / Flaming Chariot of the Sun God (Anti-Fortress, Anti-Terrain, Anti-Unit, Rank EX):** In Greek Mythology, the Golden Fleece was the hidden treasure of Colchis. Medea, sent at the behest of Aphrodite to retrieve it for Jason in order to defeat King Aeetes, possessed it for a time, and is able to manifest it as a Noble Phantasm. Ordinarily, such an item would manifest as a 'skill', but Medea is able to actualize it as a Noble Phantasm in her capacity as Rider.

In manifesting it, it becomes a crystallization of her legend. When thrown to the earth, the Golden Fleece summons forth Apollo's flaming chariot, pulled by two dragons, each one representing the souls of her slain children. Summoning the chariot causes a solar eclipse, offers Medea a two-rank boost in all stats, and at great cost, can channel the Sun as a source of magic in order to devastate entire landscapes and fortresses.

However, in the Greek mythos, Medea only summoned Apollo's chariot while in the act of killing her husband and children. Stepping into the chariot represented her final step towards abandoning her sanity and humanity, turning her into the 'witch' that so many claimed her to be. As a result, using the this Chariot permanently shifts her alignment to Neutral Evil, and increases her Divinity by one rank. That is why the Golden Fleece has the additional classification of Anti-Unit.

 **Rule Breaker (Anti-Thaumaturgy, Rank C):** A weapon that materializes the divinity of the witch of betrayal. It is an iridescent and jagged dagger that is thin, brittle, and blunt. Its effectively nonexistant capacity as a weapon is that of a regular at most, and would not be suitable for even killing a single person.

Greatly differing from other Noble Phantasms, its unique ability is that it is the ultimate anti-magic Noble Phantasm. It is capable of despelling and destroying any kind of spellwork, rendering contracts void, and severing magical bonds. It "transgresses" on all pierced spellcraft – including enchantments, connections through contracts, and so on, unmaking all affected magic into its base components and 'wiping the slate clean'.

There is a limit to what it is able to dispel, however, meaning that spellwork on or at the rank of Noble Phantasm will never be returned to their original state no matter how low they rank.

This iteration of Medea, summoned under the class of Rider, is a crystallization of Medea before she was betrayed by Jason. As a result, she is considered to be 'untainted by the evil of the final betrayal', and does not possess the knowledge to manifest or wield Rule Breaker.


	22. Chapter 22

The decision to travel with Kuzuki had been a practical one. I wanted to avoid taking the Nevernever, given the recent mishaps it had caused in our lives, and since we didn't really have transportation, relying on Rider was the next best option. Saber's junker would only work with her in it, and the thing was an eyesore, all mismatched colors and rusted steel.

Which wouldn't have bothered me – if it were the Blue Beetle. But it wasn't, and I wasn't about to tolerate a replacement. She was a thing of beauty, a relic of a bygone era, much like Rider: a servant who, despite the show she'd put on, turned out to be a relatively sane driver. She used turn signals, kept both hands on the wheel, and actually obeyed the speed limit, which more than I could say for most of the people of Chicago.

On the other hand, the drive was anything but comfortable: par for the course, being a seven-foot tall wizard folded into a tiny sports car. My knees were poking into my chest, and I was hunched over like a high-schooler during a tornado drill, scrunched between the driver's seat and the back window.

Hindsight being what it was - _maybe_ the junker would've been a better option.

And I wasn't the only one on edge. Murphy's hand kept tightening on her armrest, and her fingers from twitching towards the pistol at her hip. Her wary gaze was fixated on the speedometer, and on the road ahead; it seemed she hadn't forgotten Rider's entrance, and wasn't entirely comfortable riding backseat.

I was wary of Rider, too... which is part of the reason I asked her to drive us. Time with Rider gave us a chance to feel her out. Twenty minutes of small-talk gave us the chance to do that.

Personality-wise, she fell somewhere between Charity and Maggie: devoted and eager to please, with a naive outlook on life that was as cringe-inducing as it was heartwarming. She couldn't sit still, either; she had this habit of rapping her fingertips along the steering wheel, a motion which repeatedly drew my eye to her nail-polish, a shade of blue that matched her hair. The paint was chipped in places, suggesting that she did a lot of work with her hands – or had a habit of catching them in doors.

Rider's smile was pretty, but in a way that didn't quite suit her – it was an almost manic smile, one that almost too excited, and it always seemed to emerge when she looked at Kuzuki.

I didn't like that smile.

The woman in the driver's seat was supposed to be a Servant, a _hero of legend_ , but she acted nothing like the Servants I'd seen so far. She seemed to blend in to the modern era almost _too_ well; if it weren't for her unusually shaped ears, and the familiar tingle of magic that crackled in the air around her, she wouldn't even pass as a Servant. But despite her immense power, her coordination was apparently non-existant, and she seemed more interested in fawning over Kuzuki than she did participating in the war.

A vague suspicion nagged at me, like an itch I couldn't scratch. Her otherworldly appearance – her pointed ears, and sky-blue hair – evoked memories of the Sidhe... and while some heroes were known for their martial strength, others were known for their cunning. I felt that I could trust Kuzuki, but what about his Servant? Could I count on her in the war to come?

I was torn from my musings as the car rolled to a stop. Grunting with the effort, I managed to twist my head to the side, and caught a glimpse of a very familiar driveway.

"Here we are!" Rider chirped, grinning with all the innocence of a schoolgirl. She peered out the window, an and gasped. "My, what a lovely home. Your contact has excellent taste! Don't you think, Souichirou-sama?"

At the top of that gated driveway was a two-story _stucco_ house, with walls the color of sandstone and a red-painted roof. Squat edges and carefully placed stones rose from the earth like sentries, surrounding a koi pond that was bisected with a wooden brige; bonsai tries, hand-trimmed and meticulously maintained, filled the fornt yard and gave it a maze-like feel.

"It is... acceptable," Kuzuki admitted, observing the garden with a speculative eye.

I nodded in agreement; Murphy followed suit. Once upon a time, few would have accused the home's owner of having good taste, but time had been generous to Mortimer Lindquist.

"If you don't mind me asking, why am I dropping you off here?" Rider asked, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. Her expression was curious, and honest – but I found myself holding my tongue. Instead, I gave her a half-truth.

"He might be able to fill us in on what happened to the cursed kids," I said, after a moment. I glanced out the window, scratching at the stubble of my chin. "His name's Morty, and spirits are... kind of his thing."

Understatement of the century.

Once, he'd offered magical services to the mundane world, just like I did – but he didn't have a scrap of power to his name, and his seances were little more than scams to swindle whoever was desperate enough to walk through his door. Hardship changed that. He'd come into his own power, and become an Ectomancer with _serious_ kick, enough that I'd be wary about facing him in a straight-up fight... especially now, of all times.

Because I'd witnessed that power of his Ectomancy firsthand, a power that he'd used to help reunite me with my loved ones and save a whole lot of people from a whole lot of hurt. He could channel spirits of the dead, absorbing their powers and calling on their memories to aid them in battle.

And with Servants being introduced to the wizarding folk of Chicago, there was no telling what kind of situation Morty might find himself in. My visit was as much for information gathering as it was for recon; I needed to know what Morty knew, needed to find out if he was involved in the war – and what role he'd take.

I stepped out of the car, shutting the door firmly behind beside me – and I strolled up to the passenger-side window, sparing a glance down at Kuzuki. Murphy stepped out as well, and leaned up against the door, keeping an eye on the street, her hands tucked in her pockets.

"We're probably gonna be a while," I said. "If you have someplace to be, go ahead. I'll fill you in on what we find."

"Very well, then," Kuzuki replied, in his trademark monotone. He spared a glance at the road, and then back at me. "Rider and I will be about our business. Speaking with you was... productive, and informative."

I nodded silently and stepped away from the car. As I did, Rider leaned forward in her seat, and gave me a cheery wave.

"Take care - and call us if you need anything!" She said, grinning childishly. Then, she leaned back in her seat, changed gears, and peeled out of the neighborhood in a frenzy of pumping pistons and squealing rubber.

I blinked owlishly as I watched them go... or, more accurately, as I watched the snowstorm swept up in their wake.

"Well, at least she's got style," Murphy sighed, tucking her hands into her pockets; her baby blues watched the car disappear into the distance, looking as troubled as I felt. "Dresden, I know I've said it before, but... _damn_. This whole 'Servant' thing is a bitch to wrap my head around."

"And that's why I was hesitant to bring you along," I replied. Ignoring Murphy's frosty look, I put my hands in the pockets of my duster and sighed; my breath was stolen by the chilly air, vanishing into the midday sky. "I wasn't holding out on you, Murph, and I'm not now. This war's a soup sandwich. There's so much going on, so many powers at play, and at least two of them are gunning for us."

"Key word being 'us'," Murphy said, pointedly. Then, she glanced up at the house. "Come on, then. We're burning daylight."

* * *

Concrete crunched pleasantly beneath my feet, with each loping step I took; Murphy's faster, lighter steps fell in beside mine. Together, we worked our way up the driveway, stepping past the Chrystler in the driveway, an older model that was polished to a sheen. I cornered a row of bonsai trees, stepped over the morning's paper, followed the cement walkway that led to Morty's front door... and paused.

One thing that wizards pride themselves on is security. Wherever a wizard's workshop is, he's got defenses set up; little _gifts_ for any would-be intruders, such observation wards, explosive glyphs and steel-reinforced doors are par for the course.

I couldn't see it from the street – rows of pristinely-trimmed hedges obscured my view - but I noticed that Morty had such a door. I also noticed that the handle was twisted out of shape, and the door was dented inwards. Its warped frame barely managed to fill the silhouette of the doorway.

A note of dread settled in my gut, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose in time with my heartbeat.

"...Harry," Murphy whispered, a note of warning creeping into her voice. Quick as lighting, she'd conjured a pair of Barettas, and had them both trained on the door.

"I see it," I murmured, drawing my _Dirty Harry Special_ from its shoulder holster.

"Breach and clear," she replied, her voice low and steady. "Let's move."

Years of working together paid off in moments like these. The two of us stuck close together, like any professionally trained team, and made our way down the concrete walk. I led, shield bracelet and blasting rod raised; Murphy held to my flank with the shuffling gait of an experienced marksman, her twin pistols sighted on the doorway. In near silence, the two of us crept forward towards the porch, eyes peeled.

We made it to the porch without incident, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Stepping up into the entryway, we split up – one on either side of the door – and pressed ourselves flat against the wall.

A silent, tense conversation passed between us, in as much time as it took most people to blink. She jerked her chin towards the door, and brushed a hand against the frame; I nodded, tapped an ear, and raised three fingers on my left hand.

She nodded – and I lowered one finger. Then another.

I made a fist, and pushed the door inwards.

The door fell from its hinges, collapsing to the tile floor below. It let out a sharp _crack_ as it chipped and fractured under its own weight, piercing the silence of the home like a gunshot.

We were already in motion.

I burst into the room, my blasting rod at hip-height; Murphy, standing behind me, did the same with her pistols. I strafed to the left, raising my shield bracelet as I did, and projected a wall of transluscent blue light in front of myself and the doorway.

There foyer was empty, but that observation did little to put me at ease.

I'd been to Morty's place a few times before, and I'd always enjoyed visiting. His place had a rustic, almost oriental feel to it, with minimalist furniture and symbols of worship from religions the world over. Bookshelves lined the walls, each containing rows upon rows of magical texts, modern and ancient; the living room played home to a fireplace that was always roaring, maintained by an act of thaumaturgy that converted sunlight into flame.

Today, though, Morty's home looked like a _Tasmanian devil_ had rolled through it. The outside was relatively unscathed, but the inside? There wasn't a single piece of furniture left standing. Cabinets, crowded bookshelves and paper curtains were little more than splinters on the floor. The walls and ceiling were scored by long, straight gouges, as though they'd been sliced through with a blade. Foot-shaped imprints scored the floor, cracking the lacquered wood.

I noticed something else, too - when I'd crossed into Morty's home, I hadn't felt the usual _tingle_ of a threshold. Whatever had come before us had torn straight through it. All in all, it looked like the work of something – _someone_ \- very familiar.

"Berserker," Murphy hissed, giving voice to my thoughts. Her baby blues were fixed on the remains of the door, eyeing the warped handle. "He's been here."

"Looks like," I grunted. "You seeing what I'm seeing?"

"A trail," Murphy replied. She peered through the wreckage with a critical eye, and stepped further into the room, pistol at the ready. "It looks like Berserker kicked in the front door, and... walked through the house, smashing whatever was in his way. But there's no blood, or any bullet holes. Are you picking up anything magical?"

"No," I replied. "But that tells us nothing. It's daytime, and the threshold was damaged when Darth Maul's ugly step-sister kicked in the door. If there were any spells cast overnight, there wouldn't be any traces now."

Murphy nodded thoughtfully, but didn't reply; a moment, I tucked my blasting rod back into the pocket of my duster, freeing up my hand. I couldn't sense anything magical nearby, and if any threats arose, I figured she'd be more than enough to handle them.

Scowling, I strode into the room. Glass and sawdust crunched beneath my boots as I stepped over the remains of a vanity mirror; my duster flapped at my ankles as I approached the main staircase. I peered around the corner, towards the second floor – and from what I could see, it was completely untouched.

"Harry?"

I peered back over my shoulder.

Murphy was looking up at me expectantly. She'd nudged aside aside a scrap of wood with the tip of her boot, and beneath it was... a dot of dried blood.

"You think Berserker managed to cut himself with his own spear?" She asked, tilting her head to the side. "No? In that case – since his car is in the drive, I'm guessing this blood belongs to Morty."

"Huh," I said, furrowing my brow. I stepped down from the landing and knelt by the bloodstain. I pressed my fingers against the wood; the blood had seeped into the boards and dried, so my fingers came away dry.

"Occam's Razor, here to save the day," I mused. "Not that I'm complaining, but I expected a little... well, more. This room should look like a Jackson Pollock painting."

Murphy glanced around the room her lips pursed in thought. "...If you approach it like a murder scene, then... yeah, you'd expect more blood. But what if Berserker didn't come here to kill Morty? What if he was here for another reason?"

"This is Berserker we're talking about," I said, arching an eyebrow. "There's only one word in his vocabulary, which is _kill_ , and the only way he can articulate it is with his spear."

"He's also called a Servant, which implies that he can be controlled," Murphy replied, unphased. "Think about it. Berserker punches through his front door, tears his threshold to shreds, smashes _every single piece_ of furniture in this room... and he only cuts Morty once, just enough to bleed. This wasn't a murder – it was a shakedown. Berserker was here to intimidate him. The questions are: who gave Berseker the order, and why were they after Morty?"

I could take a few guesses. I'd originally come to Morty for information; given that he spoke with spirits on the daily, he might have had insight on what had happened to the souls of those children in the hospital room. I also thought that he might be able to tell me a little more about the workings of Heroic Spirits, and was thinking about recruiting him to our little alliance. Perhaps one of our enemies had known about our impending visit, and had stopped by his home to scare him off?

"There's one way to find out," I said, gesturing towards the trail of debris leading further into the home. "Come on, let's follow the yellow-brick road."

I climbed to my feet. Glass and sawdust crunched beneath my boots as I stepped over the remains of a vanity mirror; my duster flapped at my ankles as I strode through the wreckage, my shield bracelet held at the ready. Murphy fell into step with me, her back to mine, her eyes on our six.

The trail wound through his kitchen, and into the dining room beside it; Murphy and I took the approach with measured steps, checking our corners and looking for booby-traps. Though I couldn't sense any magical threats, we'd fallen prey to mundane ones before, and I didn't want overconfidence to send me to yet another early grave.

The trail took a right, towards his study – and towards the lab within, concealed behind a false bookcase.

I'd seen it once. Unlike mine, which was designed with utility in mind, his was a little more more grandiose; I'd been inside of it, once, when I'd consulted him on a thaumaturgy problem I'd had some months back. It was a fourteen-by-fourteen cube lined with three inches of reinforced steel, concealed above his garage – though you wouldn't be able to tell it, given that the floor was carpeted and every available surface was covered in rugs and tapestries. The place smelled like powerful incense, which was incredibly distracting, but apparently enhanced his connection with the spirits... as did that tacky crystal ball he swore he'd get rid of.

A note of worry sank into my gut. Despite his faults, Morty was a good guy – and Berserker was a death sentence, even for a wizard of his caliber.

I paused outside the study door, reached for the handle... and suddenly, a jolt of lightning raced down my spine, stopping me in my tracks.

Murphy paused, glancing at me sidelong. "Harry? What is it?"

I opened my mouth to reply – which was a mistake. Nausea hit me with the force of a sledgehammer, and my hand clamped down on the door-handle. Brass groaned and warped beneath my grip.

"Do you smell that?" I whispered softly. Something in my mind skipped and faltered, like a scratched vinyl recording, as fight of flight instincts took over; it was a primal state that I was all too familiar with.

The woman beside me paused for a moment – and then, she stiffened as well. She said something back to me: a single word, one that left her parted lips in little more than a whisper.

"Blood," she said.

I pushed open the door.

The room was illuminated by the faintest trickles of light creeping through ruined blinds; even then, those trickles were enough. The darkness couldn't mask the stench of copper, or the oily sheen of crimson that coated the room. Blood was everywhere, more blood than I imagined possible. Torn books were scattered throughout the office, knocked from their shelves, _pasted_ to every available surface. Worse still was Morty's easy chair, the one his clients favored: it looked like someone had sliced it into ribons with a cheese grater, and its guts were spilled across blood-drenched carpet.

It brought to mind an image I'd seen before: that of a love motel room, bathed in the blood of two lovers, whose hearts had exploded in their sleep. And though I knew this particular bloodbath wasn't the work of Victor Sells – _**Die Alone!**_ \- that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

I stepped into the room, and the carpet _squelched_ beneath my feet; Murphy's steps, lighter and faster, followed behind.

"God," she breathed, "this is..."

"His lab," I interrupted, continuing forward. The words came quickly to my lips, quick and hard. "The study's gone, but he might not be. We need to check the lab. There's still a chance."

The bookcase – and the doorway it concealed – were blown open. Much like the front door, this entrance was dented and mangled; however, burn marks on the carpet suggested that it had been blown open from the _inside_ , and that it had been laced with protective wards. The sight gave me hope: if Morty had managed to get inside his lab and shut the door, that meant the blood pooling at my feet was Berserker's.

Though he might have gotten cornered in his lab, though Berserker had managed to break through the door, there was a chance that the wards had delayed his pursuit. Maybe Butters had been able to weasel his way out of the lab by opening a Way to the Nevernever.

That hope drove me forward. I swept through the doorway, ducking my head – and lowered my gaze, taking in the remains of his lab. His crystal ball was crushed to powder, shattered against the wall; tapestries were torn asunder, walls of steel and concrete. His summoning circle was broken, and in the center of it-...

* * *

I don't remember stepping into the room, but I must have – because the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by concrete walls, ripped tapestries, and the faded remains of a chalk circle.

The Winter Mantle insulated me from feeling cold, but Morty's severed hand was like ice beneath my fingertips. I knew it was his: the skull ring was a dead give away.

More than that, anyone who lived long enough in our line of work tended to develop a few scars, and Morty was no exception. A faint line that traveled from the base of his thumb to his wrist, a reminder of his stand against Corpsetaker - and it was there, plain as day, carved into the flesh of the severed hand.

But as I inspected the hand, I saw something that I hadn't before: _new_ scars. Thin, red lines... tracing the back of the hand... like a tribal tattoo. They'd long since faded, but there was no mistaking what I was seeing.

Morty had been selected as a Master... and someone had killed him, killed him to _thin the competition_.

Magic surged through me, fueled by a sudden rush of anger, an anger so overwhelming that it made me want to scream. The runes on my blasting rod lit up sith-lord red, casting my blood-drenched boots into a sickly sanguine glow. My duster stiffened as it was flash-frozen by a sheet of crawling ice. Black spots danced in my vision, I could barely _breathe._ I felt hot, like I was on fire, like I was _burning alive_ -

\- and a hand pressed lightly on my shoulder.

"Morty's-"

"I know," Murphy sighed. "Morty was a Master, or at least a prospective one, and Berserker broke into his house. Somehow, he lured Berserker back to his lab. He sealed himself inside, and -"

"-and now he's dead," I hissed, my hands going knuckle-white around the hilt of my blasting rod.

"We don't know that. You've found a hand, not a body," Murphy replied, glancing at the object in question. "But we _do_ know Morty: he's a cockroach, and spirits are his forte. If anyone could find a way to survive a Servant attack, it would be him."

"But he shouldn't have been attacked in the first place," I hissed. "I should have warned him! All it would have taken was a damned _phone call_. But I was too busy playing house. If I'd have warned him, if I'd have gotten in touch with him sooner -"

Murphy cut me off with a sharp squeeze. "I know you're angry, I know, for whatever reason, you want to shoulder the blame for what's happened. But you didn't do this, someone else did - Berserker. Stop working yourself up. You need to calm the fuck down. This isn't helping anyone, not you, not me, and not Morty. Get it together."

"But-"

"But nothing," Murphy hissed. "Cut the shit. You're _hurting_ me, Dresden _._ "

My train of thought suddenly de-railed. Tearing my gaze away from the severed hand, I glanced at Murphy's fingertips, resting on my shoulder – only to find them frosted over, flash-frozen by the power of the Winter Mantle. And within her steely-blue eyes, I saw my reflection, I saw anger – and beneath that, I saw _fear_.

Sucking in a quick breath, I shut my eyes and focused. My anger subsided entirely, replaced by a health dose of terror; it was that terror, my fear for her life, that slammed against the mindless hunger of the Winter Mantle, beating it into submission.

The battle took a good thirty seconds – thirty seconds too long. As the battle reached its close, he ice coating my duster shattered like cheap stage glass, clattering to the floor. Murphy pulled back her hand, like she'd been _scalded_ , and thrust it into her armpit; she stumbled back and away from me, pressing her back flat against the wall. Her face was pale, so pale that it practically glowed in the dim light of my blasting rod – and her eyes were on me.

"Murph," I began, hesitantly. "I'm..."

"Shut up," she grunted. Her voice pierced the air between us like a thunderclap. "I know. It was the Mantle. But that doesn't help right now."

"...I know," I replied, softly. "Murph, I'm... I'm sorry."

She averted her eyes, glancing towards the doorway. As the silence between us thickened, her anger faded - and she swallowed thickly, looking anywhere but at me. "The sun's going to set in a couple of hours, and we don't have a ride home, unless you want to open a way. Either way, we should get moving. This is a dead end - there's nothing more to find here."

"...Alright," I said, forcing myself to nod.

Reaching down, I wrapped the severed hand in silk cloth, tucking it away into one of my duster's many pockets. Then, I stood, pretending not to notice the way Murphy took a stutter-step away, keeping her eyes trained on my blasting rod.

I'd used a wide range of emotions to fuel my magic. Happiness, fear... rage. They were all equally useful, in their own ways: they sharpened the mind, giving strength to a Wizard's will. But as I opened a portal to the Nevernever, the power seeping slowly from my fingertips and into the darkness of Morty's shattered basement, my search for power touched on another emotion – a distant one, one I rarely used.

Regret.


	23. Chapter 23

I'd used Ways to get to Morty's place plenty of times before; when I opened that portal to the Nevernever from inside his lab, I'd planned on a quick, safe journey home.

As they say, no plan survives contact with the enemy.

Ordinarily, Morty's home was reflected in the Nevernever as a Japanese stone garden, one with massive koi fish and _will-o-wisps_ that defended his home from outsiders. However, whatever had taken place inside his home had shifted its resonance with the Nevernever, and instead of emerging into the realm of the Sidhe surrounded by pleasant greenery and dancing lights, we emerged into a murky bog, one that smelled like ash and clung to our feet like tar.

It had taken us nearly an hour to trek through the bog. Once or twice, we were approached by some of the moonlit world's more _unfriendly_ residents. I was decent at thaumaturgy, but evocation – the subtle art of blowing things to hell – came as naturally to me as breathing, and I had plenty of Will to spare. Fire lanced from the tip of my wand, searing wild troll flesh and cutting through mud golems like butter.

Murphy took point, keeping her head on a swivel. It was a practical choice, as much as it was a personal one; she was always a better scout than I was, and the distance between us made talking inconvenient. Her eyes scanned the treeline, but I could tell that her head was elsewhere. Her hand, the one I'd nearly flash-frozen, remained in her pocket – and it shifted against the fabric, back and forth, as Murphy worked feeling back into it.

I winced, quickly glancing away, but held my tongue. There was no undoing what had happened, and apologizing like a broken record would just piss her off.

We emerged from the Nevernever in the Carpenter's backyard, stepping into the snow just below their treehouse. As a cool breeze dusted across my face, I felt like a burden had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders; Morty's basement was a world away, and for a moment, I could almost forget the feeling of blood squelching beneath my boots.

The sight of the Carpenter's home helped, too. The sun had just set, so it couldn't have been later than five or six in the evening; however, their lights were on, and I could see their television flickering through the living room windows. Voices – familiar ones, voices that soothed my aches and pains – drifted from the home, along with the pleasant smell of cooking food.

I wasn't the only one transfixed. Murphy stood beside me, silent; her eyes softened, her expression becoming unreadable.

"We're home," I murmured.

"Yeah," Murphy replied, running her good hand through her dirty-blonde locks. She smiled, and the tension of the day eased from her shoulders. "I suppose we are. Come on, big guy. Let's get inside."

Side-by-side, our heavy boots crunched tracks through the ankle-deep snow; we made our way up the wooden steps of the Carpenter's back deck, and stopped at the sliding door. Casually, I reached for the glass and rapped my knuckles against it. One, two, three knocks.

Footsteps, clumsy and loud, beat a dull staccato against the kitchen floor. Suddenly, my daughter was all but sliding across the tile, streaking towards the doorway. She was wearing a set of _Hello Kitty_ flannel pajamas that pooled at her ankles and hung low over her wrists… probably hand-me-downs, courtesy of Molly.

She stopped at the door, fumbling with the lock, and tugged at the sliding door. With a _whoosh_ , it opened – and she peeked outside, grinning childishly.

"Daddy!" She exclaimed. "You're home!"

And after the days' events, the sound of Maggie's voice – _my daughter's voice_ \- was a godsend. My heart beat faster, and all of my worries seemed to wash away, even if it was for just a moment. Knowing she was okay, knowing that she was alive and well… everything was suddenly _right_ again.

I wasn't sure what came over me, but before I knew it, I was already moving. Maggie let out an adorable little squeak as I swept her off her feet. She was so light and fragile in my arms, like a baby bird. The feeling of her against my chest lasted only a second, but I'd remember it for a lifetime.

"P-put me down!" She gasped, squirming against my grip. "You're c-cold!"

And the second passed.

Clearing my throat, I glanced down at the girl in my arms... and then at the sleeves of my duster, which were covered in powdered snow – snow that was melting in the heat of the Carpenter's kitchen.

Snow that was soaking into my daughter's warm, comfortable pajamas.

"Oh." I winced, setting Maggie down, and cleared my throat sheepishly as she wiped at her sleeves. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"Smooth," Murphy commented – though from her tone, and the smile playing at her lips, she was just as amused as I was. Strolling past me, she tousled Maggie's hair affectionately, drawing a grin from my now-soaked daughter. "Hey, kiddo. Thanks for letting us in. Though… isn't it past your bedtime?"

"Nope. Well, not tonight," she replied, grinning toothily. "We're staying up late, watching a movie about knights, 'cause… Charity said it'd be edu-…"

"Educational?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mmhmm!" She nodded firmly. "It's good. You wanna watch it with us? Saber's there, an' Charity, too..."

I spared a quick glance at the stovetop timer, which displayed the time as 8:15 in bright green neon. Morty's severed hand, inside my duster pocket, seemed to weigh as much as a brick; clearing my throat, I patted that pocket, discretely tucking it further into the folds of my duster. The last thing I wanted to do was scare the living daylights out of my daughter.

And it was also a reminder. There were forces at play in Chicago, and I couldn't afford to rest until they'd been dealt with. If I stepped back and rested, if I ignored my responsibilities, Maggie wouldn't be safe.

"Sorry, kiddo, but I can't." I winced at the look of rejection on her face, but I pressed on. "I've still got work to do… and I'm doing it for you, because you're important to me. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know," Maggie said. Her fingers dipped low, fiddling with her pajama bottoms, and she frowned. "But that's what you always say..."

I nodded, somberly, and did my best to put on a convincing smile. I wasn't sure if it worked or not, but Maggie hesitantly smiled back. The awkward silence was broken by Murphy, who placed a hand on her shoulder.

"That's because it's always true," she said. I shot a quick glance at my favorite blonde, one that she returned; a private exchange passed between us in a heartbeat. It was in the way her hands tensed on my daughter's shoulder, the way her knowing eyes met mine, and the way her lips twitched into a gentle frown.

 _'It's alright. Things are okay between us. We'll talk later. I'll keep an eye on your daughter. Do what you have to do.'_

I nodded discretely, tucking my hands into the pockets of my duster.

"Come on, squirt," Murphy said, jerking her eyes away from mine. "I'll watch the movie with you. Let your daddy do his work, and when he's finished, he can join us. How does that sound?"

Maggie scrunched her nose in distaste. "I dunno. Will he be done soon?"

I knelt by her side, and rested a hand on her other shoulder. As her chocolate-brown eyes met mine, I gave her an encouraging smile. "Give me twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. Then, I'll join you guys for the movie."

I could tell she wasn't convinced, so I decided to sweeten the deal. "I'll even bringing popcorn."

"Hmm... okay," Maggie said, squinting her eyes at me. Folding her arms across her chest in a failed attempt to look intimidating, she scowled. "But I'm on to you. If you no-show, I'll have your badge!"

"...What?" I asked, blinking owlishly.

Then, Maggie leaned up and kissed me on the forehead. Giggling, she turned back to Murphy – who was trying very hard to conceal her laughter – and tugged insistently on her hand. Open-mouthed and completely confused, I could only watch as she all but dragged Murphy into the next room.

Then, sighing wryly, I took a moment to bask in the feeling of my daughter's lips on my forehead. A contented smile split my lips, and I let out a heartfelt laugh.

 _'This feeling... so this is what being a father feels like.'_

* * *

The smell of cooking food hit me like a truck, overwhemling my senses and setting my mouth watering. Though I wasn't in the best mood, my appetite couldn't be denied; my stomach let out a low groan, like some monster out of the _Walking Dead_ , and before I knew it I was already piling a plate waist-high with Charity's home cooking.

I could also feel Murphy's stare on me, and I responded with a single finger, raised in protest.

"Harry Dresden."

I twitched, a spike of terror setting my heart alight; I dropped my finger, and in the process nearly dropped my plate.

"Shit," I breathed. _That wasn't Murphy's voice_.

Whipping around, I discovered I was face to face with the chef herself. Dressed in a comfortable yellow sweater, blue jeans and a pair of boots, she looked every inch the suburban mom; of course, I knew better. She was a blacksmith, a dragon-slayer, and a goddamn wizard with a ladel. She also was a strict disciplinarian, and I was probably violating half-a-dozen of her house rules.

She placed her hands on her hips and huffed, blowing an errant strand of auburn hair out of her face. "What was that?"

Her green eyes were boring holes in mine, and it was all I could do not to turn tail and flee. Swallowing thickly, I straightened my back and cleared my throat. "Um. Absolutely nothing. Mrs. Carpenter. Ma'am."

"That's what I thought," she replied, narrowing her eyes. Her gaze dipped down to the plate in my hands, and she _tsked_. "I know I'm a good cook, but if you take that much food at once, you're going to spill that all over the floor. I just had the carpet cleaned."

"Charity," I said, seriously, "the only place I'm dropping this is my stomach. On that, you have my word." I held up my plate for emphasis. A little flattery never hurt, and honestly, she deserved every ounce of praise she got. Her husband might have been one of God's chosen warriors, but she was a _saint_ in the kitchen.

"I'll hold you to it," she replied, her glare easing up. Placing a hand on her hip, she gave me a once-over. "How was your trip? Productive?"

My smile faltered a little.

"Oh," she replied, her expression mirroring mine. "Well, you'll be happy to know that today went well. Michael's looking a little better, and Saber has been keeping watch over the home. Honestly, I'm glad she's here. I had my reservations, but... it's made dealing with all of this so much easier. And she's been so dependable, too. As long as she's nearby, I know that Maggie and little Harry are safe."

"Glad to hear it," I said, leaning back against the countertop. "As crazy as the last few days have been, you guys deserve all the peace you can get."

"Peace?" She shook her head, smiling. "When you have kids, peace is an impossible dream. You work for it, you fight for it, knowing it'll never happen."

"Then why don't you take a break sometime?" I asked, tilting my head to the side. "You and Michael. When this war's over, why not take a vacation? Leave the kids for a few days, take a trip to _Sea World_ or something. Whatever it is that people our age do for fun."

Charity shook her head, her crimson locks bobbing from side to side. "Michael is a servant of the Lord. I knew what he was when I married him. A normal life – that's a luxury we don't have. We gave it up, and that's okay."

I blinked. "Hold the phone. Are you telling me the big man upstairs will defend your house with a legion of angels, but he'd skimp on paid vacations? I hope you've got a good dental plan, at least."

"He'd let us go – he wouldn't interfere with free will – but there's risk involved," she said, waving a hand dismissively. Her smile faded, and her lips settled into a hard line. "We have to watch over the kids. Then there's Butters and Sanya, and the Better Future Society – if they need help, we need to be here. And that's not mentioning you and your cases... if we weren't here, where would you be now? Dead in a ditch, on the side of the road?"

"Still squatting in your house, still eating your food," I retorted, smirking. "Though, to be fair, Murphy would be heartbroken about it."

"Not you, though," Charity replied, rolling her eyes. "Typical Dresden."

Something was wrong. I met her eyes – and I realized that somewhere along the line, the conversation had taken a serious turn. "If you and Michael weren't here... Stars and stones, I don't know what we'd do. But you don't have to worry - it isn't your responsibility to care for all of us."

"No. That's your responsibility, isn't it?" She asked.

Her tone was accusatory. I didn't rise to the bait. Silence fell between us, and after a while, she spoke.

"...You really need to look after yourself," she murmured. "You need to slow down."

"Right now, I have too much to do," I replied, shaking my head. "You know as well as I do – with everything that's going on, I don't have the time."

"Throw yourself into every struggle, tear yourself to pieces, and there will never be time," she replied, firmly. "Michael and I learned that lesson. That's why we're here, with the children. You can only slay so many dragons before you get burnt. You don't have to put yourself at risk every day, and when you do, when you don't live for yourself, you lose touch with everything you fight for. And if you want to leave Maggie without a home, without a family -"

"She's got you and Michael -"

"Does she?" Charity asked, coldly. "Does she, really? Maggie needs her father, Dresden. She's getting older, now, and starting to ask questions. Questions about you. What it is you do. The stories she heard as a toddler, they're suddenly becoming real. She's starting to understand that you're putting yourself at risk, and she's worried she'll lose you before she gets the chance to know you. I can't help her. Michael can't help her. That's your job – as her father."

I met her gaze again – and glanced away sharply. Whether it was to avoid a soulgaze, or just to avoid her wrath, I couldn't say. Frustration reared its ugly head, burning a hole in my chest, and I let out a slow breath.

"...I know," I grunted, "And I will. Once the war is over."

Charity pushed herself away from the counter, wiping her hands on a towel.

"There's always a war," she said, shortly. "How many will you fight before you learn that?"

I watched her walk away, my hands tightening knuckle-white on the countertop.

* * *

Morty's severed hand was on the garage floor, resting within a chalk circle I'd meticulously drawn. His skull-ring glinted in the light, gleaming with dried blood. As morbid as it was, as much as the sight of it made me want to vomit, I forced myself to do my due diligence.

No… that wasn't right. I did my due diligence, yeah, but not because I had to. Charity's lecture was driving me up the wall, and ritual work had always been a great stress-reliever. Throw yourself into work, and you can almost forget about the world around you – for a little while, anyway.

And the fact was that Morty's hand, as gruesome as it was, was a wizarding detective's goldmine.

In the world of thaumaturgy, all things are connected; it's more of an art than a science, one that allows a wizard to identify connections between things and manipulate them. With Morty's blood, his hand, _and_ his ring? I'd be on his scent like a bloodhound. Alive or dead, I could find him.

But I'd found it easily – maybe too easily. Who's to say it wasn't cursed, left behind as a booby-trap in hopes that it would be discovered by another Master in the Grail War? The command seals had been removed, leaving faint scarlet impressions behind, so it was unlikely that the person who removed them wasn't aware of the hand's presence in that basement.

That was why I'd picked it up with a silk cloth, and that was why it was sitting inside of a circle on the Carpenter's garage floor. I needed to make sure it was safe before I tampered with it.

I wasn't much of a curse-breaker, but I knew the theory behind it, and enough power to see it through… probably. All I needed to do was scan the object for the presence of a curse, find it, and purge it with the right thaumaturgy. And, for the sake of my sanity, I wasn't going to use my Wizard's Sight to figure out if there was a problem. I'd had enough moments of senseless babbling to last a lifetime.

Unfortunately, I didn't have my usual tools to work with. My lab in Murphy's basement had been all but destroyed, along Little Chicago and most of the alchemical ingredients and ritual components. When she'd returned to her place, she'd given the place a quick walk-through, and had salvaged what she could. It hadn't been much - just a few pieces of chalk, a handful of silver bullets, a vanity mirror, two bottles of whiskey and a few million dollars' worth of diamonds.

If you're looking to have a good time or _Death Star_ a werewolf, that's all you'd really need, but precise thaumaturgy is a little more demanding.

Thankfully, I had something – _someone_ – that could fill in the gaps.

"Sure!" The wooden skull's eyes lit up a brilliant green, and the disembodied voice of a young girl echoed through the room. "I'd be glad to help."

Her excited tone tore me from my brooding. Blinking owlishly, I looked up from my hunched position on the concrete floor.

"…I haven't even asked yet," I said, furrowing my brow.

"I see _everything_!" Ilya exclaimed, as her skull rolled around on the concrete floor like a hamster ball. "But, yeah. I'm a spirit of intellect – yours, remember? So I pretty much know what you're gonna do before you do. And all of this stuff you're playing with, it's pretty telling. Even if it is a little gross."

"…Oh," I said, wincing. I took a moment to observe the ingredients I'd laid out over, and pondered – with a sinking feeling in my gut - the implications of having a pseudo-daughter knowing me better than I knew myself. "And it doesn't bother you? Helping me out with this? I could always get Bob, or -"

"Nope!" Her skull kept rolling along, coming to a stop at my foot. "I don't mind at all. I just like spending time with you."

"Stop it, you're making me blush," I said, chuckling. I patted her skull affectionately. "I'm glad to have your help, though. It means a lot."

"Don't get the wrong idea," Ilya said, her eyes flaring warningly, fixing me with a stern look. "I'm not doing this for free."

"Oh? You'd charge your old man?" I put a hand to my heart, grimacing. "And to think, I gave _birth_ to you."

"Please, you're not that old! And if you're good at something, you don't do it for free," she cried, hopping up and down. "I demand payment!"

"This generation, I swear." I grumbled. At her sharp glare, I sighed, raising my hands in mock-surrender. "Alright then, kiddo. What can I get you? And don't say a movie – you've been watching too many of those. How about a book or something?"

My thoughts drifted to Bob and his smut addiction, and I had the sudden fear I'd be giving one of my daughters the talk much earlier than expected. Immediately, I shut my trap, and for the second time that evening wished I had a little more tact. But expectation is the root of all disappointment, and in this case, the answer I got was definitely not the one I expected.

"A body!"

My train of thought de-railed.

"I want a body like yours. Like Saber's," she said, wistfully. "I didn't think it was possible, for a spirit like me to have an actually body. But she does. And it got me thinking."

"...You've been thinking for a while now." How long had it been since Saber had arrived in our lives? Nearly a week? Time flies when you're living in a state of abject terror. But Ilya had been there since the moment of Saber's summoning. Why hadn't she said something? She could have come to me at any time... couldn't she?

Was this what Charity had been talking about?

"I know I'm... not your daughter, not really." She glanced away. "I haven't done much for, you either. I couldn't stop Berserker, and now Murphy's homeless. And I know it's a lot to ask – something like this is a lot to ask, of anyone, but..."

"Ilya," I murmured. "That's... that's not..."

How could I have been so foolish? I'd been so focused on the battle, on everything else, on everyone else, that I'd almost forgotten. It had been so easy to think of Ilya as merely another spirit, much like Bob, but she wasn't. Unlike him, she _had_ a soul – and despite her intelligence, she was still less than a year old. She might not have had been my flesh and blood, but she was still mine. In fighting for everyone else, had I been neglecting her? Had she been dealing with this guilt, alone, all this time?

"I want to be normal," she finished, firmly. "Like you guys. I don't want to spend my life not knowing what the sun feels like, or what food tastes like, or what it's like to... feel your hand on my head."

I reached out, resting my hand atop her skull; the rune-inscribed wood was cool to the touch.

"Ilya," I began, hesitantly. "I know I'm not the best father. I know I'm... not here, most of the time. But that doesn't mean you aren't my daughter. It doesn't mean I don't care about you. I'm just... _stars and stones,_ I'm terrible at this kind of thing."

"Yeah, I know," she replied, averting her eyes.

I wasn't sure what words to use. Some problems you can't just fix with a well-placed apology. Then again, words were never my strong suit; action came much easier to me. So I stuck to my guns.

Scratching the stubble of my chin, I let out a slow breath. "Look. I'm... I know I'm not exactly father of the year material, but I am a man of my word. Can I make you a promise, as a father to his daughter?" At her silence, I continued. "As soon as this war's over... you and I are going to get you a body of your own. I don't care what it takes, or where the journey takes us."

"Really? Do you mean it?" She asked, her voice hopeful.

I picked up her skull, holding it in my arms, and looked her in the eyes. Then, I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, kiddo. Together, you and I will figure out a way to make it work. You've got my word."

Because Charity was right. Neither of my girls deserved to live a life without knowing their father. Life was short, and if I was going to risk mine, I wouldn't tear theirs apart in the process. Ilya might not have been my flesh and blood, but she was mine, too – and I'd be damned if I couldn't build a happy life for my daughters.


	24. Chapter 24

_I was dreaming._

I stood in a grassy plain under a clear blue sky. The sun shone brightly overhead. I saw a farm somewhere in the distance, but couldn't make out the details of it – the place was faded, like an old, sepia-toned photograph. Smoke rose from a small cottage, curling into the air. Horses clopped through fields of wheat, free and untamed.

I saw a girl. Her blonde hair was long and straight, pulled back into a simple braid. Her emerald eyes were innocent and light, her smile warm. She wore a dress the color of lilacs, homemade if the stitching was anything to go by. She couldn't have been much older than Molly was, when I'd first made her my apprentice – maybe fifteen years, tops.

Saber.

I saw fire, blazing in the distance. The sky was blackened with soot and smoke. The wails and moans of the dying pierced the still air, filling me with terror. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters were perishing in the blaze, begging for salvation with their last breaths.

I saw Hell, and felt despair.

But I wasn't seeing them alone. Saber's younger self turned towards the inferno, her face bathed in the orange light. She glanced back at the farm, longingly… and then, she turned away. Closing her eyes, her expression hardened into something determined, something far beyond her years.

Before her, a sword emerged from the earth, impaled in a marble stone. All sound faded, except for that of her leather boots, scuffing softly against the grass. She approached the edge of the stone altar, resting her delicate hands atop the hilt of a golden blade.

"Kid," I whispered, my gut dropping, "Don't…"

With a mighty pull, she wrenched the sword from the stone, and held it aloft; it burned brighter than the setting sun. The sight of the blade made my heart beat with awe and sorrow. It was a pain like I'd never known before. I wouldn't look away – I couldn't. The sword in her hands called to me. Through destruction it would bring purity, and through sacrifice it would bring salvation.  
 _  
It was the symbol of a King's authority - and as the girl picked it up, she left herself behind._

* * *

"…Harry?"

I opened my eyes.

Everything was blurry; it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The lights had been shut off, but the television was still on; one of those older models from the early nineties, it flickered silently in the corner of the room, casting everything else into shadows that ebbed and flowed.

Maggie was beside me, wrapped around my arm. It seemed she'd fallen asleep, too. She grumbled something under her breath, curling into my duster, her mousy locks splayed over the worn leather.

A hand pressed lightly into my shoulder. Resisting the urge to pass out, I searched for its owner, coming face-to-face with a familiar pair of green eyes. I stared for a few moments longer before recognition dawned.

"Saber," I mumbled, wiping at my eyes with my wrist. "What time is it?"

"Half-past midnight," she replied, keeping her voice low. She spared a glance at my daughter, then continued. "I thought I should wake you. The movie has already ended; Murphy has retired, as have the Carpenters."

"Mm," I replied, as eloquent as usual. "Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," she returned, tucking her hands into the pockets of her workout hoodie. "It wouldn't do to fall asleep here. You'll be much more comfortable in an actual bed."

I let out a slow breath. "Gotcha. Give me a sec. Gotta get up."

Slowly, as quietly as I could, I sat up; Maggie mumbled something under her breath, but her half-woken protests stopped as my hand found her hair and began running through it. A moment passed, and once I was sure she'd fallen back asleep, I began to move. Fabric rustled as I worked my way out from beneath my daughter's grasping limbs, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I managed to make it to my feet, leaving the couch behind.

But as I left, she shivered.

Pausing, taking in the sight of my daughter, I frowned. Grabbing a nearby comforter, I laid it over Maggie, tucking her in. The massive swathe of fabric swallowed her whole, and as it did she breathed a contented sigh. Something lanced through my chest, yet another emotion I didn't have a right to: something prideful and content.

"You're a good father," Saber said softly. "You really ought to give yourself more credit."

I didn't wasn't really sure how to respond - being complimented by a woman with _B-Rank Charisma_ tends to have that effect - so I shrugged. Running a hand along my stubbled jaw, I walked over to the television and shut it off; as the light finally died, I picked up my staff and backpack.

"Harry, it's late," Saber warned, furrowing her brow in disappointment. "You need your rest."

"Not tonight, I don't. Nevernever time dilation," I replied, stifling a yawn in my fist. "My sleep cycle's out of whack. There's still work to do. I can hit the sack when I'm done."

Saber raised an imperious eyebrow, glaring up at me like a disappointed schoolteacher. Despite the difference in height, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't little intimidated. After a moment, though, her glare faltered, and she let out a resigned sigh. "…I don't suppose there's any way to change your mind, is there." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope," I said, smiling wryly. My feet found their way into a pair of slippers – I couldn't feel the cold, but there was no sense in tracking dirt into the house. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Stubborn and foolish," she muttered, disappointment thick in her voice. "One of these days, you will learn to respect your limitations."

I shrugged, leaning up against the doorway. "I mean, you're not wrong, but I've still got work to do. Want to come with?"

Saber furrowed her brow and glanced away, looking thoughtful. Silence fell between us for a moment, though I wasn't quite sure why; after a moment, she nodded once. "Your proposition is… acceptable. I shall accompany you to your workshop."

"It's not much of a workshop, but it gets the job done," I replied, shrugging genially. "Come on, then. Ladies first."

I stepped aside, gesturing half-heartedly towards the open door. Saber stood there for a moment, looking entirely out of place – and was it just me, or did her cheeks look a little… _red_? No, it had to be a trick of the light. Kings didn't blush.

Then again, neither did Murphy…

"…You coming?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I - yes," Saber replied. Looking distinctly uncomfortable, the King of Knights cleared her throat and walked stiffly out of the room, definitely not meeting my eyes.

Huh.

Shelving my confusion, I passed through the open doorway and closed it behind me with a soft click.

* * *

We entered the garage.

It was cold – colder than it had been when I'd entered earlier, cold enough to make my breath mist. The frigid air snapped me right awake, brushing away any lingering hold that sleep had on me.

The overhead lights were off, but that wasn't any trouble for either of us. The circle I'd inscribed on the garage floor, roughly five feet across, was emitting its own light, glowing a soft blue; my second daughter's wooden skull sat within it, its eye-sockets glowing faintly. Green tendrils of ambient magic crawled along the floor from the skull to the reagents near it, occasionally pulsing. The beat was slow, tediously slow; I had to resist the urge to tap my foot. Ilya was doing the best she could, and she was probably faster than me to begin with. There wasn't any sense in pushing her.

Morty's severed hand was lying in the center of the circle. The cold air was preserving it, keeping it fresh. Reagents surrounded it, resting within the circle at key points, connected by lines of chalk, fishing line and diamond dust. His ring, gleaming a dull silver, hovered in the air above the circle; it spun aimlessly, like a planet off its axis.

Saber paused just outside the doorway, taking in the scene. After a moment, she spoke – and her voice was hard. "Harry? Please, forgive my suspicion, but what sort of sorcery is this? This looks… dark."

Oh, right. This must have been why she was so flustered earlier. Running my hand through my hair, I let out a soft sigh. "Well, as you know, Murphy and I went to see an informant today. Unfortunately, we couldn't find him. However, we _did_ find his hand. We're enchanting his ring with a tracking spell."

The ring spun, ever so slowly, the skull engraving on it plain as day. Saber paced around the circle, eyeing the ring and the carefully placed spell components.

"His name is Mortimer Lindquist. He's an ectomancer – like a medium. He communicates with the spirits of the dead and helps them find peace," I continued. "The children recovered by Chicago PD were missing their souls. I figured that he might have seen or heard something through the spiritual grapevine."

"Yet, he is also a Master," Saber replied, pointedly eyeing the severed hand.

"Was," I replied, shaking my head. "His Command Seals have been used or removed."

"Then he is likely –"

"Dead," I responded, shortly. "Yeah. But there's a chance he's not, and Murphy and I like to hedge our bets. If he is alive, he's still in danger, and we're not gonna leave him undefended. He's a friend, and he's done a lot of good for a lot of people."

Saber gave me a stern look – and after a moment, it softened.

"I see," she murmured. She knelt by the side of the circle, tracing its edge with a finger; pulling it back, she gazed intently at the skull beside her. Her eyes seemed to glow – whether that was a trick of the magelight, or an aspect of her powers as a Servant, I could only guess. Then, she glanced up at me. "And... why is Ilya...?"

"Helping? It's father-daughter bonding," I explained, smiling sheepishly. "Not to mention, she's good with this kind of thing. Better than I am, anyway, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good. I guess she got it from her mother."

It was the first time I'd spoken about Lash in a long, long time. She was a fallen angel who'd taken a backseat in my mind, intending to lead me down a path of temptation, only… she didn't. She couldn't. We'd ended up working together, and somewhere along the line, we'd become allies. Friends, even. Maybe something more. Disaster struck, and she'd sacrificed her soul to save mine. She shielded me from the brunt of a psychic attack with her own consciousness, paying the ultimate price.

Her act of selfless sacrifice was an act of love, and love is one of the most powerful emotions there is. Magic or not, love is an aspect of creation, a power that can overcome any obstacle, even death itself.

"So she really is your daughter," Saber replied.

"Yeah. She is," I said. Because in the empty space that once housed Lash, she left behind a fragment. That fragment, blessed by her sacrifice, became a seed – and that seed became Ilya.

"You love her?" Saber asked, quietly. "Even though she's not your true heir? Even though she's not..."

"...human? Like Maggie?" I finished. "Even then."

It was a no-brainer. What kind of father would I be if I didn't love my kid? It might have taken me a little while to wrap my head around the idea of having a soul-baby, but once the idea sunk in, it was there to stay. She was mine, no questions asked.

"And is it true that you have a vampire for a brother?" Saber asked. She wasn't looking at me, nor had her tone changed, but I suspected that my next words would be very important – if not for her reassurance, then for my personal health.

"Half-brother," I corrected her. "We share the same mom."

"But you love one another," she pressed. "Despite his origin."

"Well… yeah. Though neither of us is really… touchy-feely like that," I replied, scratching my head. "Well, _he_ is. Kind of."

"…I'm afraid I don't understand," Saber replied, her arms folded across her chest.

"He's… he's open in his affections, just not with me." Not anymore, anyway. The only person he really opened up to was Justine, and even then, he hadn't spoken to her in over a year. Thomas was a White Court vampire who fed on emotions; he'd been tortured into near-insanity, and needed time to recover – to come to terms with his inner demon in a way that didn't harm the people around him. The Fellowship of St. Giles was pretty good about helping vampires with their addictions, and I'd had enough pull with them to stop them from killing him on sight, so I sent him their way. He'd been a self-imposed exile ever since, keeping his distance until he could come to terms with his darker half.

I caught Saber staring, and shook my head dismissively. "Nevermind. The point is, he's family. He's got my back, and I have his. It's that simple."

Saber hummed thoughtfully. "...and as one who fights against evil, you're able to keep these… _relationships_ , without compromising your station?"

"Yeah. It isn't easy, but we make it work." I replied, scratching the stubble on my chin. I furrowed my brow, shooting a quick glance at my Servant, a faint sense of unease welling in my gut.

"Saber?" I began, choosing my words carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing," she said, shaking her head. And with her arms relaxed at her sides, and her weight shifter onto her back foot – with that serene expression on her face – she might have been able to fool most people, but not me. After all, I'd spent years cold-reading Murphy, and she had emotional concealment down to an art form.

At some point, the conversation had stopped being about me. I wasn't sure when, exactly, but it had.

"Saber," I said. She didn't meet my eyes, so I tried again. "Arturia?"

Saber glanced up at me, her gaze searching. Apparently, she found what she was looking for; she closed her eyes, and let out a slow breath.

"I... had a son," she began. Her words came slowly, as though they were carefully selected. "He was a... good man, despite his flaws. An honorable, brave knight, who defended Britain with his every breath."

"Mordred," I responded, recalling her legend. The details were a little fuzzy – time does that to a man's memory – but I could remember the name, at least.

At the sound of her son's name, Saber winced. I pretended not to notice.

"Yes. Mordred," she said. "He desired the throne, as well as my affection. Yet, I could not give him either. He was illegitimate, you see. For all his virtue, I could not accept him. His birth was a product of dark magic, and was a plot designed to usurp the throne and place it in the hands of those who opposed my rule."

I took a moment to process that. Reading about tragedy is one thing, but hearing about it from a person who lived through it? Who _experienced it_ firsthand? That's another entirely.

"I… denied his right to the throne, because it was not his place to rule. I denied him the love of a father, as well, because taking him under my wing would have weakened the throne, and in our hour of strife... infighting was not something Britain could afford," she murmured. She folded her arms beneath her chest, and bowed her head. "It… wasn't what I wanted, but it was what was needed of me. Sacrifices had to be made in the name of a brighter future, and our relationship was one such sacrifice."

Saber let out a slow breath. "But, as fate would have it, my rejection made him an enemy. Britain fell to pieces as a result, and he... in the final battle, we took up arms. We fought, and…"

I knew how her story ended; a parent had killed their child, and a child had dealt their parent a fatal blow. Briefly, a note of anger welled in my chest, and I had to bite back a sharp retort. The thought of any parent killing their child was horrifying to me, no matter the reasoning – and even though the child wasn't mine, that didn't change the nature of the beast. A part of my vindictive subconscious even drew an uncomfortable parallel between my Servant and Nicodemus, who had both sacrificed their children in the name of a greater cause.

The look on her face nipped that train of thought in the bud. Saber had shut her eyes, as though pained, and dropped a hand to her stomach; it was the look of someone who was filled with regret. And despite what she'd done, I wasn't in any position to judge her, not really. After all… I'd killed _Susan_ , hadn't I? She was losing herself, yes, and she'd begged me to end her suffering, begged me to end the suffering of the Red Court, but that didn't change the fact that I chose to carry out her wishes.

A pregnant silence fell between us, one I wasn't sure how to break; in the end, I took the direct approach. Stepping closer to her, I placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. The anger I'd felt had long since vanished, and in its place was a note of fatigue.

"Saber. Are you alright?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'm fine, now. Yet… a part of me wonders if things could have been different. It's… bitter-sweet. Seeing the life you live, the lives of the people around you… it is an existence that I once believed impossible."

I opened my mouth to reply -

"Yeah, I know! We're pretty awesome."

\- and nearly jumped as my daughter's voice pierced the silence; as it was, my hand left its perch on my Servant's shoulder, and dove for my blasting rod. Saber, to her credit, didn't react – though I knew she'd been startled as well. The redness in her cheeks and the fury in her eyes gave her away.

The mood had been thoroughly shattered – which I was actually kind of grateful for. However, it seemed like I was the only one.

"Ilya," Saber warned, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "This was a private moment, and by interrupting it, you have betrayed the trust of myself and your father. It is unbecoming of a proper daughter to behave in such a manner."

 _Wow._ Talk about a tongue lashing. Ilya, though, seemed unphased; giggling, she zipped away from Saber, hovering near the ceiling. "Daughters aren't supposed to do a lot of things! Didn't stop you from becoming a King, did it?"

There was a standoff between the two of them. Saber's hackles were raised, and her hand opened, as though searching for a sword – but after a minute, she closed it, lowering it to her side. Sighing, the tension eased from her shoulders. "No, I suppose it did not."

"Ilya," I said, stepping forward. "How's it coming?"

"It's finished! Chief, we are a-go!" She crowed, ignoring Saber's soured mood entirely. At that statement, I did, too.

"Stars and stones, you work fast," I said, blinking owlishly. "Merlin, that enchantment would have taken me another… six hours, at least."

Ilya glowed under the praise – literally. "Yeah, I'm good. Stop gawking and try it on already! You have to break the circle first, though. I can't cross it. You know – magical container and all."

"Sure, kiddo. One sec," I said. I stepped into the circle, smudging it with my foot as I did. Immediately, the magic within the circle dispersed; the floating ring immediately dropped, and out of sheer reflex, I lunged forward and snagged it before it hit the ground. As I did, Ilya immediately flew out into the garage, between Saber's legs, and did a quick series of loops and spins that would have put the _Blue Angels_ to shame.

"Put it on, put it on!" She pleaded.

I was always a sucker for a woman in distress; my daughter was no different. Sensing that further delays would leave her catatonic, I surrendered. The loop of worn silver was too small for my ring finger, so – swallowing my distaste - I slipped it on to my pinky finger. My daughter's laughter was well worth it.

"Yes!" She exclaimed, hovering over my shoulder. "Okay, so, you've played Hot and Cold, right? Wait. You have – I remember. The last time was… oh, gross. Elaine, really? I did not need to see that."

Groaning, I buried my face in my palm, and tried to ignore Saber's look of abject confusion.

"Ilya," I all but begged, "There are some of my memories that no kids your age should have access to. Please, do yourself a favor and shelve them. There's a time and place for everything, and now is not the time."

"Well, when's the right time?"

"Preferably never," I grunted.

"You're no fun." Was it possible for skulls to pout? No? Maybe it was just my imagination. "Anyway, this ring is kind of like that. If you're facing the right direction, the ring's gonna glow. The closer you get, the brighter it glows. When you get really close,it'll light up like a flashlight."

As the conversation shifted away from my private life, I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Saber, I was sure, had noticed. Despite the faint flush creeping up her neck, she said nothing, apparently content to preserve my dignity. I was grateful, but still… ' _Dammit, Ilya_.'

"It's connected to Mister Lindquist by… think of it like a spiritual thread," she continued. "As long as he's alive, this thing can guide you to him."

Clearing my throat, trying to sound casual, I made a distinct point not to look at Saber. "Alright, then. What's the range?"

"No limit!" She announced. "It needs to be charged, and it uses more power at longer ranges. If it starts to die, just feed it some juice and you're good to go."

I twisted my wrist this way and that; as I did, it seemed to glow marginally brighter, emitting a tingle that raced through my fingers and up my arm. It was like a shot of coffee to the nervous system, jolting me right awake; not only did we have confirmation that Morty was alive, but we had the means to track him down.

"So… what do you think?" Ilya asked. She was hovering close to my shoulder, her eyes wide and bright.

"…What do I think?" A grin split my lips, and my hand tightened around the hilt of my staff. "I think it's game time."

"Game time?" Saber echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Game time," I repeated, nodding sharply – and even then, I was in motion. My earlier hesitation forgotten, I slung my backpack about my shoulders, buckling it across my chest, and began searching for my boots. "Morty's alive – we know that much – but we don't know how long he'll stay that way. We have to move. Now."

"This could be a trap," Saber replied, furrowing her brow. "We'll need to be cautious. And we should let our allies know where we're going, too."

"On it," I said, whipping a slate-grey Nokia out of my pocket and holding it out for my Servant's inspection. "This thing's about as low-tech as they come, and it has a reputation for indestructibility. Charity picked it up while we were out – and according to her, it should hold up just fine."

"I slave over a hot circle for hours, not even a thank you, and you leave as soon as I'm done?" Ilya gasped. Clearly, she'd been spending too much time around Charity, too. As I finished lacing up, I knelt beside her.

"Duty calls, Padawan," I quipped, even as her flaming eyes widened with concern. Placing a hand atop her skull, I grinned. "Don't worry, we'll be back before you know it. And I'll be sure to thank you properly then."

Then, I stood, and shot a quick glance at my Servant. "Saber, are you ready?"

"Yes, Master," she affirmed. Throwing back her shoulders, she held out a hand out to her side; Caliburn appeared within her palm in a flash of light. "Your orders."

"You're driving, and I've got some calls to make while you do," I stated. "We've got places to be, and a missing man to find."

I slapped the garage door opener. With a groan, and more than a few clanks, the metal began to move. As it rose, the winds outside grew louder, hissing and moaning as they worked their way in. Snow and sleet, thick and choking filled the swirling night air, and the moaning turned to a fierce howling; my duster was whipped up behind me, caught by the breeze.

It was my element – and I embraced it with a smirk.

"Let's go."

* * *

 **[Bob Talks Magic: Ilya Dresden]**

Spirits of intellect are interesting beings. They are of Sidhe origin, and are typically aligned with the element of air. After all, it is through breathing that one speaks, and through the wind that music travels; it carries scents, tastes, and even men as they journey to new places. As a consequences of their heritage, they do not possess souls. This means that they do not possess free will, and throughout their act within their pre-designed limitations.

Ilya is an exception to this rule. Though she is a spirit of intellect, she is of Fallen origin, and as such does not have a set elemental alignment, or a connection with either of the Sidhe courts. Her personality, and her spiritual appearance, appear to be amalgamations of the various women that have influenced Harry Dresden throughout his life. In addition, she possesses knowledge of magecraft that most masters would be envious of, and is free to use these magics without being restricted by the will of a Court or Heavenly Being. As Fallen are timeless by nature, she will likely live far beyond her peers; this is merely speculation, however, as no instances of such a birth have ever been recorded.

Despite these advantages, she lacks a body of her own, and exists entirely as a semi-corporeal spirit. Without shelter, direct sunlight will purge the magics that comprise her; she is also vulnerable to being summoned by her True Name, and faces many restrictions corporeal humans would not face, such as being unable to cross in or out of a closed circle. The wooden skull constructed by her father reduces these drawbacks, giving her a place to rest and recover during the daytime, but when it comes to ensuring her continued safety and well-being, it is a stopgap measure at best.

 _"Ilya's very sweet, once you get to know her. I just wish she'd watch her tongue around the children - and frankly, the Top Gun references are getting a little out of hand. I'm not sure which person she inherited those from, but whoever it was really needs to seek psychiatric help."_ \- Charity Carpenter


End file.
